Temporary Bliss
by NixDucky
Summary: It's been weeks since the fight with Metatron, and Sam has no idea what happened to Dean's body. Then the phone rings and everything changes. WARNING! Here be Wincest.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: A huge thank you to BookwormBaby2580 for putting up with my kink, and making everything I write so much better. And for making me an epic playlist for this! The link will be posted soon.**

**This story takes place at the beginning of season 10. I've used some dialogue from 10.01 - Black. The boys belong to Eric Kripke. Thank Chuck for Eric Kripke.**

**Chapter 1 - Empire of Dirt**

**_"Let's say you swallowed a bad thing and now it's got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure." _**

**Richard Siken**

"Good. I'm alright. I'm just… tired, you know? Be better when we get him back… after… after I kick his butt."

Sam positioned his phone between his ear and his shoulder, switching the coffee machine on with one hand and rubbing his eyes with the other.

He heard Cas sigh deeply on the other end of the line, before saying, "I miss him."

And what the hell was Sam supposed to say to that? He took a deep breath, and held back the irritable retort sitting right on the tip of his tongue. _You know _nothing _about missing him, Cas. I feel like I'm missing a fucking limb with him gone. _Instead he just replied with a terse, "Yeah."

Cas didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of Sam's mood. Sam was exhausted and wrung out, physically and emotionally, and he knew that he'd been snapping at people unnecessarily. If the packer at the small grocery store they'd been frequenting since moving to the Bunker, told him to "have a nice day, now," just _one _more time, Sam was going to cut a bitch, literally.

But Cas was struggling with his fading grace and in spite of that, he had been there to help Sam with anything Sam asked of him. Sam reckoned he could show Cas the same consideration. He could hear how weak Cas was. After telling Cas to get some rest, Sam hung up. He shouldn't have phoned him in the first place. It was a weak lead and now he had probably worried Cas. It was just that Sam was used to having a sounding board, and now there was no-one. No-one but Cas. Sure, Sam could probably have phoned Jody, but he didn't want to involve her in all of this. She had her hands full with Alex.

The coffee machine beeped, and Sam walked to the sink to rinse out a mug, and then back over to the machine to pour himself a cup. It was a little burnt (old machine) but it was hot and strong, and just what Sam needed. He sat down at the table, one large hand curled around the mug, the other holding his head up as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He jumped so violently when his phone rang, vibrating loudly on the table at the same time, that he nearly tipped the chair back and over. Shaking his head—thinking to himself that he really should try to get some sleep tonight, his nerves were shot—he looked at the caller ID on the phone. Unknown number. Huh.

Picking the phone up, Sam tapped the screen and held the phone up to his ear, closing his eyes as he said, "Hello?" a little gruffly.

"Sam?"

Sam stood up so quickly, he knocked the chair back and bumped the table, tipping his mug over and spilling hot, black liquid all over. By the time it started dripping onto the floor, Sam still hadn't been able to say a word.

"Hey, Sam? Can you hear me?"

The line was a little crackly, but Sam knew that voice. Would know it anywhere. That voice had raised him. "Dean?" he gasped. "Oh my God, Dean, where the fuck are you? Are you okay? Where are you? We've been looking for you for six weeks, Dean! We thought... Where the fuck _are _you?"

Sam heard a low chuckle before his brother said, "Slow down, Sammy, we'll get to all that. I'm fine. I'm in Rapid City right now. I'm good."

"Rapid City? What the hell happened to you? Why the hell are you in Rapid City?" Sam felt like his brain was wrapped in cotton wool, he couldn't think straight. What was happening? Dean was alive?

"Wait, never mind, tell me later. I'm coming to get you. Where exactly in Rapid City are you?" Sam was already packing up his laptop, stuffing it into its bag, without rolling the cord up properly, and walking to his room to collect his duffel, which he hadn't yet unpacked since he got back to the Bunker a few days ago. Should be fine. He had weapons in it and anything else he might need was still in the trunk of the car he'd been using. Bless the Men of Letters' garage.

Dean rattled off the address of the motel he was staying in, and Sam tapped it into the GPS of his phone, already out the door. "Can't wait to see you, kiddo..." was the last thing Sam heard before they hung up. There was something about the way that Dean said those words that made gooseflesh pop up all over Sam's skin. He wasn't sure if it was the good kind of gooseflesh or the bad kind, so he shrugged it off, got in the car and pulled away. It never occurred to him to wonder why Dean hadn't just driven home to the Bunker.

Sam made the eight hour drive, from Lebanon, Kansas, to Rapid City, South Dakota, in six.

Pulling up to the small motel, Sam noticed that it was a little more skeevy than what Dean would normally choose. If he had a choice. Often they didn't. And Sam knew nothing about Dean's situation yet. He could be injured, probably had no money. Worse case scenarios had been popping into Sam's head the entire drive. He kept telling himself that he knew nothing, that Dean had sounded good, _alive _. As long as he was alive, they could deal with anything.

He drove through the motel parking, looking for the number of Dean's room. _13 _. "Means nothing," Sam muttered to himself. He turned a corner and saw the Impala parked at the end of the row of rooms. As he pulled in next to her, the door to the room she was parked in front of opened, and Dean leaned casually against the door frame. Sam's breath hitched as he saw his brother, alive, whole. He suddenly felt weightless. For six weeks he'd been simply keeping on, trying to find any clue about where Dean had gone and why. And the whole time he'd been so afraid that Dean was dead. Or worse. But Dean was fine, standing with the light from his room surrounding him, in old faded jeans and his black t-shirt. His hair was longer than Sam was used to, he was barefoot, drinking from a can Sam assumed was beer, with a soft smirk on his face. Sam could've sobbed with relief.

He was out of the car almost before he'd switched the ignition off, and it took him three long strides to reach Dean and pull him in for a crushing hug. Sam pushed Dean away briefly, looked him up and down, checking for… anything. But Dean looked fine, so Sam just pulled him back in and hugged him harder. He could feel Dean chuckling softly, but his brother hugged him back just as tightly. Then Dean pulled away, brushing Sam's cheek with his hand briefly—Sam barely had a chance to think _that's new _—and stepped into the room, bringing Sam in with him. Dean sat down at the rickety little table in what Sam presumed was supposed to be the kitchenette, but was really just a counter with an old kettle on it, and motioned toward the second chair on the other side of the table. Sam sat down, hardly taking his eyes off of his brother, half afraid that if he looked away, or even blinked, Dean would disappear.

Dean handed him a beer, took a long swig of his own, waiting for Sam to pop the tab and have a drink. As Sam put the can on the table, Dean said, "heya, Sam,' and grinned. Sam grinned back. He couldn't help it. Dean was alive and fine!

"Heya, Jerk. Where the fuck have you been?!" Sam felt as if his face might cramp he was smiling so hard.

Dean's smile faltered a little.

"Dean? Hey, are you okay? Tell me what happened."

"That's just the thing, Sam. I have no idea. I woke up a few days ago, in a dive bar in North Dakota. Baby's keys were in my pocket, the room I was in was paid up till the next day. Chick from the bar told me a smarmy guy with a British accent had brought me in and paid the bill."

"Crowley," Sam growled.

"Gotta be, right? Thing I can't figure is what his game is. And where have I been for—you said it's been six weeks since the fight with Metatron?"

Sam nodded.

"So what the fuck happened in between then and me waking up in fucking North Dakota?"

Sam took a long drink, and put the can back down shaking his head. "I don't know, man. Cas and me, we've been following every lead, looking everywhere we could think. It was as if you never existed.

Dean looked up quickly, "Cas? Is he… coming here?" He seemed a little nervous, but Sam chalked it up to the weird situation.

"Nah, Cas isn't, uh. Cas isn't doing so well. He's… well..."

Dean interrupted him with a wave of his hand, "Tell me about Cas later, I wanna know what's been going on with you. It's weird, I know I only woke up days ago, but I feel like I haven't seen you in years, Sam."

It wasn't like Dean to wave Cas off—literally—but he spoke to Sam with such warmth in his voice. Sam felt as if he hadn't heard Dean speak to him like that since he was a teenager and had hit every mark during target practice. He felt like his insides were glowing, when Dean spoke to him like that.

"Yeah I—I feel the same. We were so worried Dean."

Sam told Dean the whole story. How he'd taken Dean's body back to the Bunker, cleaned him up as well as he could. How he'd tried to summon Crowley, but nothing had happened. How he'd drunk himself into a stupor, not wanting to face Dean's corpse. And how, when he'd finally worked up the nerve, Dean was gone, with only a note left on his pillow. He didn't tell Dean how he had sobbed when he'd read that note.

Dean listened to his brother talking, as if it was the only sound in the world. Sam couldn't remember the last time Dean had focused on him like that. He thought that he should probably find it a little weird, uncomfortable even, but he just didn't. Sam had always loved Dean's attention, coveted it, actually. Deep down, he thought that was probably why he'd never got on with his dad; because when John was around, Dean's attention was all for their dad. And Sam had been jealous. Shit, Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd thought about this. But here he was soaking up Dean's focus like the attention whore he hadn't been since he'd left for Stanford. Which was _why _he'd left for Stanford...

Sam shook his head, trying to get rid of thoughts he hadn't allowed himself to have for over a decade. The gooseflesh was back.

Dean watched Sam, with a weird little smile on his face. Sam missed it, totally wrapped in his own head for a minute, but when Dean cleared his throat and Sam looked back to him the smile was gone, and Dean's face was the picture of big brotherly concern.

"You okay, little brother?" Dean's voice was a little low and a lot gravely. Sam tried to suppress the small shiver that ran down his spine.

"Yeah, I'm… I'm fine. It's just. I was so worried, Dean. You were dead, and I thought—I thought that was it. I thought it was over. And I thought that was the worst thing that could happen, but then… then you were gone. There wasn't even a body to burn, and I had—" Sam's throat was tight and he was trying not to let the sob that was stuck there escape, but he was exhausted and so damn relieved, and he just couldn't stop it. "I had _no idea _what had happened to you." Fuck it. He was man enough to cry, and he thought he was allowed to in a situation like this. His brother had seen him in worse shape. He broke down, sobs wracking his worn out body, tears streaking down his face.

Dean stood up slowly, schooling his features into an expression of sympathy, and walked around the table to crouch down in front of his brother. "Fuck, I'm so sorry, Sam. I'm so sorry you had to go through that. I can't even imagine. And this is the second time I've disappeared on you. Of course, the first time you didn't—well never mind about that now. I've forgiven you for that, anyhow..." Before Sam could even finish the thought, _how could he bring that up now, the bastard? _, Dean had pulled Sam's head down to his shoulder and was running his fingers through Sam's hair. Sam wasn't sure what the hell was going on, he couldn't remember the last time Dean had even touched his hair, but he was feeling small and broken and his brother's hands on him felt good.

Dean was saying things like, "You're okay now, Sam, _I'm _okay, now," and "we'll get through this," and "it's just you and me, against the world," and "I—I love you so fuckin' much, Sam."

Wait, what?

Sam tried to pull away, feeling confused, but also not wanting to be too far away from Dean.

"Uh, what...?"

Dean let Sam lean out of his embrace and looked down at the floor, his cheeks turning a little red. Sam tried to tell himself it was from the beer. The one beer, that Dean hadn't even finished. He must have been drinking before Sam arrived. Yeah, that was it.

Dean ran his fingers through his longer hair, looking flustered. "_ Fuck _. I swore to myself I wouldn't—look, Sam, just forget it, I didn't mean it, I mean, I _did _, sure, you're my brother of course I love you but, not like what—um..."

Dean looked up at Sam then, and Sam wasn't sure what Twilight Zone he'd stumbled into, but the look in Dean's eyes, pupils blown full black… Sam had never seen that look in his brother's eyes, and had thought that he never, ever would. _Dirty, bad, wrong. Brothers. _

"Fuck it," Dean growled. _Growled _. And then he pulled Sam's head down to his roughly, and Sam's head was spinning, and Dean's mouth was on his, and he could taste the metallic tang of blood as their teeth clashed and their tongues got caught in the frenzy.

Sam finally found the wherewithal to pull away, and hold his brother at arm's length. "Dean, what the fuck?" Sam licked his lips, could still taste Dean and blood, and brought a finger up to touch his mouth which was still buzzing with the memory of Dean. _The taste... _

Dean's eyes were locked on Sam's mouth, watching it with such a look of hunger, Sam groaned. Dean didn't even look ashamed. He looked… Victorious. But at Sam's groan he seemed to check himself, and managed to paint a sheepish look on his face.

"I'm sorry, Sam. No, fuck, I'm NOT sorry. Look, you can push me away, or hell, never talk to me again, but I've seen how you look at me Sam! Since you were, hell, younger than I care to think about. I've watched you watching me, looking at me like I was a cool drink that you just wanted more and more and more of."

By this time, Sam had his head in his hands, covering his face. He groaned again, with shame, with hopelessness. He had never wanted Dean to know any of this. He might as well just put a bullet in his brain right now.

But Dean was still talking. He took Sam's head in his own hands, angling it up so that Sam was looking right into his brother's eyes. Sam could only see a thin sliver of the green that had haunted his dreams since as far back as he could remember.

"Sam—Sammy—(the way Dean said that name made Sam uncomfortable) It was the same for me. I felt the same. I _feel _the same. I thought that something was wrong with me, that my wrongness had infected you. I tried so damn hard not feel what I did. I thought I'd die when you left, and I was so fucking grateful that you did. I hated you and loved you for leaving. But these past few days, all I've been able to think about is you. At first I thought for sure I'd been away for years, and I missed you so bad, I thought I might break apart with missing you. All I've been dreaming about is you, your skin, fuck there's so much skin, and your stupid hair, and your goddamn dimples..." Dean was running his hands over every bit of Sam he could reach and there was simply no way Sam could hold back the shudder that went through his entire body. Dean's eyes glinted at that, a sinister thing Sam thought he must have imagined, as it had nothing to do with the words coming out of Dean's mouth. Words he'd wanted to hear his whole life, but knew he never would. Sam was so hard it hurt, and as he glanced down between his brother's legs he saw a bulge there, clearly outlined in denim and obvious from the way Dean was crouching, and his mouth watered. _Dirty, bad, wrong. Brothers. _

"...your mouth, your fucking mouth, Sam..." Sam's name was muffled as Dean brought his own mouth to his brother's again and softly licked it open, until he was inside, and Sam thought he had never in his life felt anything so perfect. He felt Dean grin against his mouth, and pushed away briefly, to look at his brother. All he saw in Dean's face was love and lust. He missed the smugness that was hidden right in the corner of Dean's mouth.

Sam gave in. After everything they'd been through, after everything _he'd _been through over the last six weeks, he was going to allow himself this and deal with any fallout when and if it came. Sam pulled Dean back to his mouth, and kissed him with everything he had.

It was Dean's turn to groan, and he stood up, never taking his mouth from Sam's and pulling his brother up with him. Still kissing, filthy, delicious kissing, sloppy with tongues and sharp with teeth, Dean maneuvered them toward the king sized bed Sam hadn't really noticed before. Odd that Dean had gotten a room with one king instead of two queens. They always got two queens, even when they were travelling alone, it was an ingrained habit. Sam had spent four months getting two queens and hating himself for it when Dean was in Hell, and again when Dean was in Purgatory. Until he'd met Amelia, that is. Sam barely had a second to think all of this, because Dean had pushed his flannel shirt down his arms, and was lifting Sam's t-shirt up to get at his skin. Sam shrugged the flannel to the floor, bringing his hands back to Dean's face and angling his brother's head, to get deeper inside his mouth. Dean pulled back a little, nipped at Sam's bottom lip as he pulled away completely to pull his own black t-shirt over his head.

Sam felt his calves hit the mattress, and Dean pushed him gently so that his legs buckled and he fell onto the bed. He laughed a little, catching his breath before pushing himself up toward the pillows at the head of the bed. Dean looked over his brother's body, and Sam would have sworn that he could feel that look, all over his skin. It felt a little oily…

Dean looked back up to Sam's eyes, and didn't take his eyes away from his brother's as he unzipped his own jeans, and pushed them down off his hips and to the ground. Sam swallowed a gasp when he saw that Dean wasn't wearing any underwear. Dean never went commando. Before he could think any more about it, Dean was crawling up the bed towards Sam, his thick cock swinging a little as he moved. Sam couldn't take his eyes away from it; his brother's cock was an angry red, it was so hard, and there was a drop of precome glistening at the tip. Sam wanted to lick it so badly.

Dean laughed a little when he saw where Sam's eyes were locked. "You want a taste, little brother?" Sam's eyes moved to Dean's. "Yeah, you want the taste of your big brother's cock on your tongue, kiddo. Filthy kid." Sam did. He really did. He didn't love the way Dean said those things, but god help him, Dean was right.

"First, we're gonna get you positioned right." Dean had straddled his brother and as he was pushing Sam's t-shirt up, Sam could feel his brother's cock smearing precome all over his chest. _Dirty, bad, wrong. Brothers. _ Sam lifted his body a little, and then his head as Dean pulled the t-shirt off. But he stopped at Sam's hands. "Now just..." Dean muttered as he knotted Sam's t-shirt around his hands, and then around the wooden bars on the bedstead.

"Dean, what... I wanna touch you." Sam honest to god whined.

Dean just laughed some more. "Just making it a little more exciting, Sam." As if fucking your brother wasn't exciting enough. But once again, Dean distracted Sam before he could think about it too much. Dean's tongue was wrapped around Sam's, and the slurping sounds were filthy. And those sounds just made Sam harder. Sam whimpered a little and Dean shushed him, just like he used to when Sam had had a bad dream, or had hurt himself somehow.

"S'ok, kiddo. I'm here. Gonna take care'a you." And Dean shifted up and further up, on his knees, until his heavy cock was right in front of Sam's face. Sam didn't even think twice. He opened his mouth and breathed a heavy sigh out through his nose when he finally felt the weight of his brother on his tongue. Sam tugged on his t-shirt tie, wanting to slip his hands around Dean's ass, pull him further into his mouth, but Dean had always known how to restrain someone up properly, and Sam's hands wouldn't be free until Dean wanted them that way. So Sam did what he could, swirling his tongue around the head of Dean's length, digging into the slit a little, until he heard his brother's breath hitch, sealing his lips around Dean, and hollowing out his cheeks, sucking pleasure from his brother's dick. Dean grunted and thrust in a little too far, choking Sam, but pulled back quickly. "Goddamn, made to suck my dick, little brother. Born for it," Dean grunted. Sam nodded his head slightly. He really thought he was born to suck Dean, nothing had ever felt so decadent and glorious to Sam. He wanted Dean to choke him a little more, was reveling in the slight burn at the back of his throat. _Dirty, bad, wrong. Brothers. _Sam looked up at Dean, trying to convey to him that he wanted Dean to use him. Just a little. Wanted to really feel Dean in his throat.

Dean must've understood, because that glint returned to his eyes, before he let his head drop back and thrust a little further than was comfortable, then a little further still, until Sam was barely choking anymore. "Fuckin' taking it like a pro," Dean gasped, "you done this before, Sam? Choked on a thick, hard cock, pretended it was me, practicing so you could be fuckin' perfect at deep throating your big bro?"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. Dean couldn't know that. There's no way Dean could know that he _had _done that. Had hated himself for it, and then had done it again. He didn't want Dean to know that, didn't like the mocking tone in his brother's voice. Just as he was going to turn his head away though, Sam felt a soft touch at his mouth. Dean was stroking at the point where Sam's mouth touched his flesh and when Sam opened his eyes, he found Dean was looking down at him with such a look of reverence. Of love. And Sam forgot his discomfort, forgot what he had just been thinking. Sam would do anything to get that look directed at him again and again and again.

"Look at you, baby boy. So beautiful, Sam. So fucking gorgeous." Dean was still thrusting, slow and steady, and Sam was doing his best to give back, to make it good for Dean, but Dean was so far down his throat that all Sam could really do was relax his jaw and take it. He could feel spit running down the side of his mouth and tears leaking out the corners of eyes. Sam felt so dirty good, his naked brother thrusting into his mouth, while his own cock was straining against the seam of his jeans. Fuck, even his shoes were still on. It all felt so debauched. Dean's fingers fluttered down Sam's cheek, to his neck, and Sam felt his brother's hand close around his throat. Not hard. Just a little pressure, just enough to make Sam feel uncomfortable but not enough to make him gag.

Dean leaned down a little, to whisper "I can feel myself inside you, Sam," and Sam thought he might come just from those words. He must have gasped or grunted, or something, because the next thing he knew he _was _choking and Dean was chuckling darkly as he drew himself out of his brother's mouth.

"Goddamn, kiddo, I could do that all night. Wanna come down your throat, Sam, make sure you swallow every bit of me, feed any drops you miss back to you with my tongue." Dean licked up the side of Sam's face as he said this, and the gooseflesh was back. "Yeah, you'd like that," Dean grinned.

"Dean," Sam gasped, trying to catch his breath. His throat felt raw, and he loved it. Something had to be really wrong with him. His throat felt raw and used from having his big brother's dick down it, and he just wanted more. Sam was still tugging at his restraint.

"Uh-uh, Sam," Dean tapped Sam's nose. "Play nice and you'll get your reward." Dean noticed that Sam's eyes went down to his dick as he said that, and laughed again. A slimy, mocking thing. Sam was so strung out, so confused and needy, he didn't even know if these little things he was noticing were real. Hell, he wasn't sure this entire night was real. It was like something from his deepest, darkest, wettest dreams. Sam looked up at Dean again, sure his desperation would show. Horrified by it.

Dean shushed him again, shuffling down the length of his body. "I know, Sam. I know what you need." Dean had popped the buttons on Sam's jeans and was pulling them down his hips as he continued shuffling down. As the cut in Sam's hips were fully uncovered Dean whispered, "Damn, baby boy," and leaned down to run his tongue along first the left side and then the right. "Do you know how long I have wanted to do that, Sam," Dean sighed contentedly. A little further down, and Dean pulled the denim and cotton away from Sam's dick together, gave another sigh, kissed the tip, coming away with glistening lips, which he licked decadently.

He gave Sam another filthy grin and kept shuffling backwards, until he lifted himself off of Sam and stood at the foot of the bed to unlace Sam's boots, and pull them off Sam's feet, then his socks, then his jeans with his underwear.

For a long moment, Dean just stood there, at the foot of the bed, eyes raking over Sam's body. The oily feeling was back, and Sam was just about to say something, when Dean smiled at him. For him. That smile was all his and it chased Sam's words away. Sam smiled back. Nothing else he could do. Dean crawled back over him, until all their skin was touching, ankles to lips. Dean covered Sam like a hot, damp blanket and Sam was immediately addicted to the feeling of his brother's skin against his own. Dean kissed Sam breathless. Sam so badly wanted to touch Dean, but he couldn't figure out the words to ask him to release his hands, so he just tugged again. Dean shook his head, smiled softly at Sam, and leaned over to slip his hand under the pillow, drawing out a small bottle. Sam blinked in surprise.

Had Dean planned this? Was this a seduction with Sam the forgone conclusion? Sam frowned as he looked at the bottle of lube and was just about to say something, when Dean's mouth covered his own once more. Sam was going to turn his head in annoyance, ask Dean what the hell was going on, but Dean had a very talented tongue and within seconds Sam's mind could only think of that tongue and the things it was doing to his own.

Before long Sam was dizzy, from lack of oxygen to his lungs and blood to his brain, all the blood travelling south. Dean's hands were all over, stroking Sam's face as he kissed him, running along Sam's sides as he licked at his nipples, biting down hard one moment, soothing with his tongue the next, pressing hard fingerprints into Sam's hips as he dipped his tongue into Sam's navel, reaching up and pushing his fingers into his brother's mouth as he nuzzled into Sam's groin, taking deep breaths while Sam sucked on his fingers. Then Dean's mouth would return to Sam's, and it would start all over again, like some crazy, sexy loop. Sam lost any sense of time and barely noticed when Dean pushed the first finger inside him. He'd definitely noticed when Dean had rolled his balls with his slick fingers, stroking his length and then back to his balls, back and forth, until Sam thought he might lose his mind from the sensation. All the while Dean was fucking his baby brother's mouth with his tongue, and Sam was so surrounded and intoxicated by his brother, the pressure at his hole was hardly important. When Sam realized what was happening he had to turn his head, to free his mouth so he could take a gulp of air, a long drawn out "Deeeeean," escaping on the exhale.

Another chuckle from his brother. Sam could feel it against his skin, where Dean was sucking wet, red marks into his neck. "You like that, huh." Dean bit down hard, then ran his tongue over the mark and said, "hungry hole ready for more, baby?" and went back to sucking, pushing a second finger into Sam.

_Baby _? Like Sam was just another lay Dean had picked up. How many nights had Sam heard that word, in that exact tone, muffled in the room next to his, while John was off on a hunt, and had left his sons in rundown rental for a few weeks? Or out on the sofa while Sam was trying to study. In the back of the Impala while Sam had to be lookout. Sam hated that word.

A brush against his prostate and a third finger pulled him right off that train of thought. A little too soon, a little too rough. He gasped, and Dean gentled him telling him he was so good, taking it so good, the Dean loved him so much. And Sam was wired a little wrong anyway (a lot wrong, he was letting his big brother finger his ass and enjoying it) because the sting felt good, the burn excited him.

Just as well he was wired wrong. Three fingers was all the preparation he got, before Dean moaned, "Goddamn it Sam, I can't wait anymore. I need you," and Sam watched with heavy lidded eyes as Dean pushed Sam's legs wide and back, slicked up his own cock, one, two strokes, and lined himself up with his baby brother's ass.

He pushed in slowly, never taking his eyes off of Sam's, green-rimmed black, staring into hazel-rimmed black. Sam gasped again. Fuck, Dean was thick, too much, too hard, but Dean kept looking at him, kept pushing, never letting up, until Sam felt his brother's balls against his ass. Then Dean closed his eyes, and let out a long, low moan that Sam wanted to be the cause of for the rest of his life. Fuck the burn. Fuck not being able to sit down for a week without knowing where his brother had been. Sam _wanted _that, wanted to feel the sting every time he moved.

Sam let out a groan of his own, positive that such a sound had never come out of his mouth before. "God, _Dean _. Never—," his breath hitched, "never been this full. Fuck, I can feel you everywhere."

Dean leaned down to kiss Sam again as he started moving. Just a little too soon. Sam could feel the catch on his rim as his brother pulled almost all the way out, and punched the breath out of him as he slammed back in.

"Fuck, Sam. Fucking cockslut, look how much you love your big brother's cock up your ass, filling you up. Look how you're dripping for me. Think you can come just like this? Just on your brother's cock?" Dean set a relentless pace then, pulling out and slamming back in, hitting his prostate every so often as he buried himself into Sam. Sam really thought he could come untouched, especially if the thrusts were just a little less raw, a little more slick. He could feel the tingling begin at the base of his spine, opened his legs wider, and wrapping them around his brother's back and locking his ankles, tried to push Dean deeper. He thought he felt a pulse deep inside, and looked up to where his brother was holding himself over Sam, arms locked, head thrown back, body gone rigid. Sam could see veins sticking out in Dean's neck, muscles pulled into tight cords, and felt a warmth fill him. God, Dean was gorgeous when he came.

His brother collapsed on top of him, breathing harshly, huffing things like, "Holy fuck, Sam," and "Goddamn, _made _to take my come" and "fill you up just to watch me leak out again" and " _whore _." Sam was sure he imagined that last.

He still hadn't come, Dean had finished too quickly, and hadn't laid a hand on Sam's dick, which, Sam was sure, was going to compose a very strongly worded letter about the neglect. He felt Dean slip out, soft now, and could feel the drip of his brother's come leaking out of him, pooling in a cold little wet spot, just under Sam. _Dirty, bad, wrong. Brothers. _

Dean grunted and rolled over, and Sam was starting to feel like the whore that he was sure Dean hadn't called him, when Dean cracked open one eye, and leered "Oops. Kinda left you hanging there, kiddo," before winking at Sam, and grabbing his cock. Sam had dribbled copious amounts of precome which had pooled on his stomach, and Dean's hands weren't exactly dry, considering where all they'd been, but Dean's strokes were a little too rough and not really slick enough to make it pleasurable. But Sam had been so hard for so long, the vicious yanks did the trick and soon enough he was shooting out over Dean's hand and onto his own torso, his brother's name on his lips.

Sam wasn't sure what he expected then, but he _was _pretty sure it wasn't for Dean to casually pull on the t-shirt to release his hands, pat Sam on the cheek with another wink, mumble "proud of you—knew you had it in you," which tugged at Sam's memory and kind of freaked him out, and turn over onto his side to start snoring softly a minute later.

Sam lay on his back, staring at the pocked-marked, smoke stained, ceiling, willing the tears pooling in his eyes to back the fuck off. He wanted to talk about this with Dean, to figure out what the fuck had just happened. _You let your brother use you as a convenient hole, is what just happened _. He pushed that thought away. He couldn't think that. Dean would never do that. Dean was probably just tired and wrung out, as Sam was. The last few weeks had done a number on him, body and soul, and this, what had just happened, was huge. They would talk about it in the morning, Sam was sure. That was the last thought Sam had before he sank into a bone tired sleep.

When Sam woke up, he could hear that it was day. Sounds from the main road filtered in, and he felt a spot of warmth at his back, which he first thought was Dean, but then realized it was just a ray of sun, probably coming through a gap in the curtains.

_Dean _.

Sam sat up suddenly, acutely aware of the patch of cold dampness under him, and the dry, crusty mess on his stomach. He looked around, slowly at first, then a little frantically. The bathroom door was open, no sound of water or steam drifting through. Dean wasn't in there. There were empty beer cans on the table on the other side of the room, but otherwise no sign that his brother had ever been there. Sam got up, wrapping the sheet around his hips, and took a few steps away from the bed. Dean's duffle wasn't against the wall where Sam had seen it the night before. He started to feel a little sick. Sam walked slowly to the window and peeked through the curtains, horribly afraid of what he wouldn't see there.

The Impala was gone.

Sam's legs buckled, and he managed the few steps back to the bed before he collapsed, sitting down hard on the bed. He felt numb.

A buzzing on the side table made Sam look over, and he saw that his phone was there. Dean must've put it there, where Sam would find it right away. Relief flooded through Sam. Dean hadn't just left him, he was sure. He had gone to get coffee, breakfast, something, and was just letting Sam know.

Laughing at himself a little for being so worried, for not trusting his brother, Sam leaned over and picked up the phone, swiping across the screen to open the message Dean had sent him. But as Sam glanced at it, all the color drained from his face, and he barely made it to the toilet in time, before he was throwing up violently, his body wracked with heaves and sobs.

Dean had sent Sam a photo. Of them. Sam was lying on the bed naked, asleep, looking thoroughly fucked, lips swollen, hair a mess. Dean was leaning over him, fully dressed, obviously holding the phone in a typical selfie position, making sure as much of Sam's body as possible was in frame, making sure Dean's face was in frame. Dean was grinning and winking in the photo, looking for all the world as if he'd won a major prize. The text read "should've done the holy water test, Sam."

In the photo, the eye that was open was pitch black.

**Chapter song: Hurt by Nine Inch Nails**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: BookwormBaby2580 made this so much better. Any mistakes are totally mine because I just keep fiddling...**

**The boys belong to Eric Kripke. Not sure they'd agree but there you go.**

**WARNING! Here be Wincest.**

**Chapter 2 - ****Sink Your Teeth Into My Flesh **

"**_Everyone needs a place. It shouldn't be inside of someone else."_**

**Richard Siken**

Sam didn't remember the drive back to the Bunker. After emptying his stomach into the motel room's grimy toilet, he'd pulled himself together enough to throw on his clothes and stumble to the car. He hadn't showered, he hadn't checked if the room was paid up. He just got the fuck away from there as fast as he could and apparently kept on driving until he pulled up to the Bunker. No stops.

Once there, however, all Sam could think of was crawling into the shower. He turned the water on as hot and as hard as it would go. He toed off his boots, and stepped into the stall, only then realising that he still had his clothes on. He gave a small shrug and slowly pulled his shirts off, then his jeans, his underwear, his socks, all while standing under the spray of water. He threw each item of clothing as far away from him as he could. He would burn them later.

Sam stood for a while, just breathing under the almost scalding hot spray. Then he slowly tilted forward, bringing his arm up so that he could lean his forehead against it on the wall in front of him. His eyes fell closed and his breathing hitched. Sam turned around sluggishly, leaned his back against the tiles and slid down the wall. As his ass hit the floor, the jolt seemed to knock something out of him, and he sat on the floor of the shower, knees pulled up to his chest as sobs clawed out of his already wrecked throat. It felt like he spent hours on that floor just breaking over and over again, until he almost felt numb. Almost. He reckoned that was about as good as it was going to get. When he finally had the presence of mind to stand up, Sam stepped out of the shower just long enough to get the industrial-sized bottle of disinfectant liquid they used, and ended up scrubbing that into his skin until the bottle was empty and his skin was burning. At least the smell of the chemicals covered up any lingering smell of him and Dean. Mostly. Sam thought traces of that smell were probably forever embedded in his nostrils.

Stepping over the soggy pile of his discarded clothes, Sam shuffled naked out of the bathroom and down the hallway to his bedroom. He paused just long enough to pull his phone out of his duffle bag, and check it. The screen was cracked from where he'd dropped it in his rush to get away from the photo Dean had sent, but he could see that there were a few missed calls and texts from Cas. Nothing new from Dean. Sam didn't care. He didn't care about any of it. He put the phone on his bedside table as he crawled under the covers. He was still damp from the shower, his throat burned, his head ached. His ass ached. His heart ached. He pulled the covers over his head, and hoped like hell that he would pass out and never wake up.

Sam did pass out. By the time he eventually woke up and managed to pull his eyelids apart, he felt as if he must've been asleep for days. His body was sluggish and heavy and his head felt fuzzy and thick. His phone was dark—battery finally died—so he couldn't be sure of the time. Not wanting to give himself time to think, he focused on finding the phone charger. Cas must be worried sick. After getting the phone plugged in, he realised that his mouth tasted foul, and not allowing himself to follow that thought any further, he brushed his teeth at the basin in his room. Running his fingers through his hair, Sam remembered that he was still naked, so he rummaged in his cupboard for something to throw on. Sweat pants and an old Stanford sweatshirt. They were soft and comfortable, and didn't irritate the marks on his wrists, or the clear imprints of Dean's fingers bruised into his hips—and Sam didn't think any further about that. By the time he was dressed, his phone had switched on and Sam was able to check his messages. Seven missed calls from Cas and almost double that amount of texts. Sam's eyes flitted over the text from Dean. For some reason he couldn't delete it, although it made him physically sick just thinking about it, but he did swipe across the message to archive it. At least that way he wouldn't have to see it every time he checked his messages. Not bothering to read the messages from Cas, Sam phoned him. Cas picked up before the first ring had ended.

"Sam, where are you? I'm in the car, Hannah is driving, just tell me where you are, we're coming."

Sam had to smile. Cas could barely stand, but he was on his way to rescue Sam.

"… I …" this time it was Sam who broke off coughing. He hadn't realised his throat was so dry. And raw.

"Sam…?" Cas sounded almost frantic.

Sam took a sip of whatever liquid was in the mug on his bedside table—old, really old, cold coffee—managed to swallow it without gagging, cleared his throat and tried again.

"I'm at the Bunker, Cas. I'm fine. I just…" Shit, he hadn't thought this far. What was he going to tell Cas? There was no way he could tell Cas about what had happened. He couldn't tell Cas he'd seen Dean at all, couldn't tell Cas Dean was a demon, couldn't tell Cas… Any of it.

"… I just came down with flu or something. Been feverish, throwing up, felt like hell, man. Finally got some sleep though, and I think I'm getting over it. Let the phone go flat, sorry. No need to worry though Cas, I'm fine. Really."

Sam could hear the relief pouring down the line as Cas said, "I thought maybe something had happened, that Dean…"

"You heard something about Dean?" Sam asked, feeling a swell of panic. Cas couldn't know!

"Nothing," Cas sighed. "I thought maybe you had and that's why I couldn't get hold of you. Thought something might have happened."

"Nothing like that, Cas. I'm sorry I worried you. Just felt like I was dying." Sam tried to tag on a little chuckle, to show Cas he was fine, and maybe felt a little silly about his bout of 'man-flu' but truthfully, Sam did feel like he was dying. Wished he was.

"Okay." Cas still sounded worried, like he didn't completely buy what Sam was trying to sell him, but Sam knew he wouldn't push it. "Okay," he said again. "I'm just glad you're okay, Sam."

"I am. Really. You don't need to come all the way to Lebanon. I'll keep the phone on and with me." Sam cleared his throat, which was still burning a little. "Got a few leads I want to check on. Nothing major, but gotta do something, you know? I'll probably spend the next few days at the Bunker anyway, until I feel better. Do some digging on the laptop."

Still sounding unsure, Cas slowly breathed out another "okay." Then "Just take care of yourself, Sam. If you're sure you don't need me—"

Sam cut him off, "I'm sure Cas."

"—then Hannah has asked me for some help with something. I'll be with her for the next few days. Keep in touch, Sam. I was really worried."

"I will, I'm sorry Cas. Thanks for looking out for me though. I appreciate it… More than you know." Sam felt tears burning at his eyes, his throat tightening. Just knowing that someone did really care for him, didn't see him as something to use, didn't know how truly broken he was, it meant so much to Sam. He struggled to keep his voice even as he tagged on, "Oh, and say hi to Hannah from me. You two be careful."

Sam hung up before Cas could say anything else, knowing that wouldn't help alleviate Cas's worries, but not sure he could hold himself together for any more words with him. He put the phone in one of the pockets of his sweatpants, vowing to keep it with him and to keep in regular contact with Cas. Cas deserved that at least, and besides, Sam couldn't afford to make him any more suspicious than he likely already was. Sam sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his still-bare feet, and took a deep breath. A tear escaped one eye and rolled down his cheek. Sam roughly swiped it away before it reached his chin. He could get through this. He'd been to Hell and back and he could get through this.

Dean wouldn't stop calling him. He texted Sam at all hours of the day and night. Sam was so scared that Cas would see a missed call or message on his phone. Cas hadn't been around much, helping Hannah and following his own leads on Dean, but that didn't stop Sam from worrying. Sam had reluctantly listened to the first voice message Dean had left but at the first smug sound of "Heya Sammy—" he had hung up and deleted the message. Sam had deleted every voice message that Dean had left since then without listening to them. He obviously wasn't answering Dean's phone calls. He couldn't. He still felt the bile rise in his throat every time he thought of that night (even as his cock twitched at the memory of Dean's hands on him, his taste…) He tried to delete the text messages as they came through—although he still hadn't been able to delete that first one—but sometimes he caught glimpses of words.

"…hungry..."

"…wanna come…"

"…skin…"

"…hole…"

"…taste you…"

"…raw…"

"…fingers…"

"…touch myself…"

Dean had always had a dirty mind, and it seemed to be working fine for his demon. Sam wasn't sure he could take much more of the way his heart sped up every time his phone buzzed and the way his stomach sank as he deleted messages while trying not to look at his phone. And Dean was _relentless_. Sam's silence seemed to spur him on, because if anything the messages and phone calls seemed to increase as the days went by. Maybe Sam was just hyper-aware of them.

And Sam had stopped looking for Dean. He didn't need to, did he? He could just call his brother. His brother, the demon, who knew how fucked up he was and wanted to use him as some sort of sex toy for his own sick amusement. Cas had obviously noticed, and Sam couldn't think of a reason that Cas would accept. There wasn't an acceptable reason to stop looking for Dean, and Sam couldn't tell Cas the truth. So instead he used the super-hunter persona that had got him through so many tough times—times when he'd been without Dean—and worked and worked and then worked some more. If Cas asked about Dean, Sam would use his current hunt as an excuse, "I just haven't had time, Cas, this rugaru has killed six people so far, you know Dean would say the job comes first…"

Which was a lie. If the tables had been turned, nothing would have stopped Dean from finding Sam. Sam wasn't even sure him turning into an sex-crazed demon who had fucked his brother with dubious consent would've stopped Dean from looking for him. And probably killing Sam when he found him, but finding him nonetheless. Sam could never kill Dean. Sam wasn't sure he could ever face Dean again, demon or not. _Especially if not._

Sam knew that he wouldn't be able to keep avoiding Cas for much longer. He was trying to keep some distance between them, so that he wouldn't have to face him, but it couldn't go on forever. He would have to think of something to tell Cas, eventually. In the meantime, he'd keep up with the avoidance as long as he could. Right then Sam was working on a case involving a more vicious than usual wendigo—eleven nature lovers down, and counting—and he was truly hoping that the hunt would end well. For the wendigo. It would just be so much easier…

Sam had tracked the creature to a small town on the edge of the Black Hills National Forest. The thing knew that a hunter was on its trail, and it was clever. Sam had been out for most of the day, trying to find where it might be holed-up when the sun was out, and he was exhausted. He figured that he would get some food and caffeine and then head back out after sunset, when the creature was more likely to be out and about—and more likely to kill a hunter stupid enough to go after it at night and alone. Sam shrugged to himself. He just didn't give a fuck.

He got a room at the only motel he could find in the small town of Piedmont, and picked up coffee and a burger at the nearby diner (it took no effort to order a burger, no small talk, no decisions). After forcing down the burger (which he didn't taste) and the hot coffee (which he did, bitter and burning), Sam sat at the rickety table in his room in silence, waiting for the sun to set. He planned to start back out at around eight that night. Give the wendigo plenty of time to get up and at 'em. Him. Whatever. When he almost fell asleep at the table, nearly knocking himself out on the way, and it was still light outside, Sam resigned himself to lying down on the bed. He may as well get some sleep while he waited. Sam set the alarm on his phone, shoved Ruby's knife under the pillow out habit, lay back on the bed, and closed his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping well, and the physical toll of this hunt had left him so exhausted that this time when he closed his eyes, he fell into blissful unconsciousness. No memories. No dreams. No black eyes.

When Sam woke up the room was dark. Not even the flash of a neon sign outside. And it was so very quiet. Sam reached over for his phone to see what time it was, but he couldn't feel it where he'd left it on the nightstand. He felt around for the lamp and, finding it, moved his hand along its shape until he found the switch. Even though the lamp was dim, he still had to close his eyes at the glare as he switched it on. As Sam swung his legs to the floor, he saw another pair of boots on the floor at the bed opposite from his (two queens. Always two queens). Sam went rigid. He felt himself go cold all over. His lungs seemed frozen; he couldn't get a full breath…

He knew those boots.

He looked from the boots, up the denim-clad legs (he knew those legs). Dean was sitting on the bed. Near enough to touch. He was just sitting there, slightly hunched over, looking at something he was holding in his lap. Sam realised that Dean was holding Sam's phone, shadows highlighted on his face from the dim glow of the screen. Dean had found the photo. He was just sitting there, almost a little sadly, looking at the photo he'd sent Sam, Sam naked and fucked-out and Dean smugly leaning over him, his eyes black.

And Sam snapped. He'd been holding on to so much fear and disgust and overwhelming sorrow and shame, that he hadn't realised that he'd been holding back a torrent of anger as well. Sam was _angry_. He was furious. For what Dean had done to him, what he'd done to them, and for what Dean had become. He knew that it was irrational. Dean, the real Dean, hadn't had any choice in what had been done to him, or what he'd done to Sam. If there was anything of Dean left, he was probably just as horrified as Sam was. Later, when Sam had a chance to think about it, he would hope that Dean really was gone. That he wasn't aware of they'd done. What he'd done. But the anger swallowed up any rationality that Sam had. Sam reached under his pillow, as fast as he'd ever moved in his life, pulled out the demon knife and lunged at Dean, knocking the phone from his hands and Dean onto his back. Sam had the knife at Dean's neck before he'd had a chance to blink. He barely struggled. Dean could hold his own against Sam. They'd sparred enough against each other their whole lives to know each other's weak points, but Dean did no more than grab onto Sam's wrist, the one that was holding the knife, and try to hold it away from his throat. As he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbed against the blade, nicking the skin just enough that a small bead of blood appeared along with a soft sizzling sound.

Dean took in a long slow breath, and looked up at Sam. Sam pressed the blade deeper into his skin, drawing more blood and for just a moment, Dean's eyes flashed full black. Whether at the sight of the blood or of Dean's demon eyes, something else took hold of Sam, his eyes blown almost as black as Dean's. A new need came over him, and there was no way in hell Sam was going to fight it. Dean had done this, he had ruined them, and now Sam needed, he _needed_ to get the upper hand. To feel that he had some control again. He leant down and drew his tongue along the cut in Dean's neck, along the line of the blade still pressed there, licking at Dean's blood, tasting the scorch the blade left on Dean's skin. Sam didn't think he imagined the ragged breath that Dean took as he sat up and licked his lips, all the while looking at Dean. The taste of the demon blood on his lips was heady, but the fact that it was also Dean's blood? That thought nearly drove Sam out of his mind. He swiped his tongue along his lips again, his eyes drawn to the blood still seeping from Dean's flesh. His eyes still looked black, but not that complete demon black. It was his brother's eyes watching him now, and Sam felt emboldened and terrified. But he wasn't going to back down. He'd show Dean, the demon, and himself, that he was not some broken little boy that could be used. Well, he might be broken. But he could also do the using.

Dean didn't say a word, just kept watching Sam. Pliant. Dean was pliant, and Sam was too angry and too turned on to wonder at that in the moment. Sam realised that he'd been straddling Dean since he knocked him back, and he could feel how hard Dean was. He pressed his own hardness into Dean, with a scorching sneer on his face, and Dean closed his eyes briefly before tilting his hips up to meet Sam's. Sam took Dean's jaw in his hand and roughly tilted his head just the way he wanted it, before bending down to kiss him viciously. He bit at Dean's lips, at his tongue, drawing blood on purpose. Just before pulling away, Sam dragged his teeth along Dean's lower lip and bit down slowly, but hard, making sure that he'd leave a mark. He sat up, looked at his handywork with satisfaction, the taste of iron and darkness thick on his tongue, and slowly climbed off the bed, keeping the demon knife in his hand. Aimed at Dean.

"Get naked, Dean. Right the fuck now, before I cut the clothes off of you." Sam hardly recognized the voice coming out of his mouth. It didn't sound like him. He had never heard that aggression and hate in his voice before. It was so wrong that it should be aimed at Dean. But so appropriate that it was aimed at the thing that had broken them, and taken his brother away from him.

Dean got up from the bed, licking at his bleeding lip, never taking his eyes off Sam. Sam loomed over him, keeping him within stabbing distance, and looked up and down his body, like Dean was something he wanted to devour. He did. He was going to. Sam was shaking with fury and want, and with the feeling of vengeful power that having this demon obey him was giving him. He didn't notice the way Dean had still not said one word to him. How he was still slightly hunched over, even as he pulled off his clothes and hung them over the chair nearest to the beds. How he wouldn't look Sam directly in the eyes for more than the briefest moment, kept his head bowed a little.

When Dean was naked, he stood in front of Sam silently. Waiting. Sam could now see how hard his brother was. Dean—Dean's body, it was difficult to keep making the distinction—wanted this as much as Sam did. The shallow cut on Dean's neck was drying, the blood on his mouth still visible, lip looking a little swollen. Perfect for…

"Get my pants off." Sam stood with his legs a little apart as Dean stepped closer, hands reaching for his jeans. Sam noticed the Mark of Cain on his right arm, still as livid as the day it first appeared on his brother's arm. Sam hated that mark. It had started all of this. "No. Get on your knees, you fucker." Dean hesitated, but Sam lifted the knife to his chest, and Dean dropped gently to his knees, and undid the button and zipper of Sam's jeans. Without being told, he leaned into Sam, and nosed at his groin, making a small mewling sound that Sam would not have believed could have belonged to his brother. "You better make it good," Sam growled, as Dean pulled Sam's jeans and underwear just low enough that he could wrap his swollen mouth around his cock. Sam knew that had to sting. Sam didn't care.

Keeping the knife in Dean's eyesight, Sam used his other hand to grab Dean's longer-than-usual hair, and hold him in place as he fucked into Dean's mouth. His glorious mouth. Dean just relaxed and took it, trying every now and then to lick and suck, but really just submitting to Sam in a way that Sam knew shouldn't turn him on as much as it did. Sam grunted and thrust roughly, hating Dean a little. Hating himself a lot. As he looked down, he saw Dean was staring right up at him, with a look on his face that broke Sam's heart and made him all the angrier. How dare Dean look at him like that, like Sam was something precious, like Sam was worth loving. Like Dean's heart was breaking as well. Sam _hated _him.

Sam shoved Dean away, hard enough that he fell over, his hands catching himself before he landed on his back. Sam was breathing hard, and so was Dean, but Dean just sat back up and knelt there, looking into the middle distance, waiting for Sam to say something. Sam clenched his teeth and ground out, "get the rest of my clothes off. Shoes first." As Dean crawled over (the site made Sam feel sick) and started to work on the laces of Sam's boots, Sam pulled his shirts over his head, holding on to the knife, like it was a lifeline. Sam clung to the knife, and felt like he was losing his mind. What was he doing? What the fuck was he doing? But then he remembered that photo, and the rawness of his throat, the bruises on his hips and the bile and the fury rose up once again. He wasn't weak! He wasn't. He wasn't some lovesick victim, he was strong and would take what he wanted. What he needed to feel halfway human again.

Dean had pulled Sam's jeans off and had folded them into a pile on the floor. Once again he was waiting.

"Get on the goddamn bed, Dean."

Dean stood up and sat on the bed. After a brief glance at Sam, he scooched back so that he was leaning against the pillow. "Not like that. I don't even want to look at you, cocksucker. You fucking cocksucker!" Sam was almost screaming, and he knew he had to try to calm down, or he would lose control completely. Taking a deep breath, and lowering his voice he said quietly and clearly, "On. Your. Knees."

Dean didn't even hesitate. He just turned around and lifted himself onto all fours, head hanging down a little.

Sam wanted to just spit-fuck Dean right then, he really wished that he could be cruel enough to do that, fuck Dean raw until he bled… But as angry has he was, as hurt and as devastated as he was, he couldn't bring himself to hurt Dean like that. Well fine, but he could still be rough. When Sam looked again Dean was holding out a packet of lube. And that infuriated Sam. Was he that predictable? A sure fuck and sure softy. The sound that came from Sam then was part profanity, part anguish, and if he'd been able to notice he would have seen Dean flinch—just the barest movement—at it. Putting the knife on the bed within his reach and out of Dean's, Sam grabbed the packet from Dean and tore it open, pouring the slippery liquid out all over Dean's ass and his own fingers as he started roughly pushing two fingers into his brother. Dean never made a sound, but Sam wouldn't have heard anything above his ragged breathing or the blood that was pumping furiously in his ears.

Remembering the rough prep that Dean had given him, Sam made sure that Dean was thoroughly wet and loose, working four fingers into him (and wondering if he could go further, but shutting that thought down immediately) before lining himself up and angrily shoving himself into Dean. Sam snapped his hips hard against Dean's ass—punching a gasp out of his brother—and held himself there, breathing ragged. It was so hot inside of Dean. Sam tried not to love the feeling of being there, and knew that he failed miserably. He hated that he loved this, loved being with Dean like this, wanted this and more, so much more. He hated that he was punishing Dean in this way, and hated that Dean wasn't even around to know about it. More than anything he hated "… you. Fucking. Demon." Sam was pulling back and thrusting hard into Dean with every hate-laced word. "I. Hate. You." Sam picked up the pace, knew he wasn't going to last long, and from the grunts coming from Dean, he was halfway there himself. "How does it feel, bitch? Being _used_." He dragged out the word, as he rutted harder and faster into his brother. "How does it feel just being a hole? Nothing more than somewhere to put my dick? Just a piece for flesh for me to sink into?" Sam bent over Dean's back and bit hard into the muscle at the junction of his neck and shoulder, breaking the skin, and sucking until he could taste the blood. Dean whined. And took it.

That sound, of Dean taking and taking and willing to take even more, was what pushed Sam over the edge. With a rough shout, Sam came inside of Dean, shuddering and gasping, and hardly noticing that Dean had collapsed onto his shoulders, face turned to the side so that he could let out the loud groans accompanying his own shaking orgasm. Sam, bent over Dean and trying to recover his breath as Dean's ass clenched at him, felt himself begin to break down. He wanted to be able to come inside Dean, and love it. To show Dean how much he loved _him_. He hated that he knew how it felt to come inside Dean feeling hate and despair and rage. He hated that he knew how it felt to come inside Dean, and that he would never really know how it felt to come inside _Dean_. Sam felt the sobs coming. He had to get out, had to get away. Fuck he needed to not _feel_.

Taking a deep breath, telling himself he could hold himself together long enough to get away, he pulled out his brother's body, trying not to notice the way it slumped, as if Dean had lost something necessary. Sam picked up the knife, and that cruel part of him that had been driving for the last hour or so, smirked, bent back over Dean, and cruelly carved an 'S' into the right cheek of Dean's ass—a corrupt imitation of the initials he and Dean had carved into the Impala. Ignoring the small trickle of smoke from the knife scorching Dean's demon skin, Sam pressed the blade just deep enough to be permanent. The burning would help that. It was like he was branding Dean. Dean hardly twitched, and Sam leaned over to lick away the blood. He could feel it, like a buzz just under his skin. Nothing like the effect demon blood used to have on him, more like a memory. Of the ruthless power it had given him.

"Now you know, you fucker. I _own_ you. And you are _nothing_ to me." Sam knew he was lying. He hoped the demon didn't. He heard what sounded like a small sob, but dismissed it as some kind of trick.

Sam got up from the bed and pulled on his clothes, making sure to slip the knife into the waistband of his jeans. He got his toothbrush and toothpaste and a washcloth from his duffle, and went into the bathroom, forcing himself not to take any notice of the used body on the bed. After brushing his teeth, and wetting the washcloth with warm water, he walked back over to Dean, and wiped up all the blood and sweat and come that he could get to. Dean didn't move any further than shifting his legs, giving Sam room to work. After that, Sam put his toothbrush and the toothpaste back in his duffle, zipped it closed and slung it over his shoulder. He looked around, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything, and noticed that Dean had turned over and was silently watching his every move. Sam looked away and saw his phone on the floor just visible from under the bed. Walking over he picked the phone up, slipped it into his back pocket, and, tossing the washcloth into the bin on his way out, Sam left, feeling Dean's eyes on his back like brands.

**Chapter song: Flesh by Simon Curtis**


	3. Chapter 3

**Temporary Bliss Chapter 3 - I'm Not Okay **

**"****_He is thinking that if only he could cut him open and peel him back and crawl inside this second skin, the he could relive that last mile again: reborn."_**

**Richard Siken**

Sam had thought that nothing could possibly be worse than the shame and misery he had felt after that first night with Dean. But he'd been wrong. The guilt that he felt after what he had done to Dean was scraping at his insides. He couldn't eat, could hardly sleep and when he did manage to doze off he didn't get any rest. Only flashes of black eyes and blood. He usually woke up with his heart racing, and either had to rush to the nearest basin or toilet to throw up or found that he had a sticky mess in his underwear that needed cleaning up.

He knew that he was starting to look unwell, almost as bad as was Cas looking. He was losing weight and there were dark circles under his eyes. And he knew that Cas had noticed. He was still struggling with what to tell Cas, who obviously _was _still looking for Dean, while Sam just as obviously wasn't. And Sam was hardly in a physical condition to hunt at the moment—not that that stopped him—but he couldn't use hunts as an avoidance tool like he had been. Cas had started hanging around the Bunker more, clearly worried about him, so Sam ended up saying he was going on a hunt, no it was fine he didn't need any backup, he'd be back in a few days, and then staying away as long as possible, just to get away from Cas's questioning looks. Cas couldn't follow him. And Sam couldn't come clean with him. But he was going to get himself killed if he took on anything more strenuous than a run-of-the-mill salt-and-burn, so he mostly ended up watching old reruns in some run down motel room trying to think of a way to somehow get himself out of this situation.

And Sam couldn't stop thinking about his brother. About the two awful nights that they'd been together and the awful things they had done to one another. Sam knew that it hadn't really been Dean, but it was still the body that had made him feel safe for as long as he could remember, the body that he had longed for, for as long as he knew what sex was. It was still Dean's face and his lips. Dean's hands. Dean's blood. And although what they'd done had not been what Sam had ever dreamed about in his wildest fantasies, still… It had been a piece of Dean he'd never thought he'd get to experience. And Sam wanted more.

He was a sick and greedy man, and god, he just really wanted more. But more than that, he wanted Dean back. He felt Dean's absence like he would feel the loss of a vital organ. So maybe his brother was gone, maybe he would never get Dean back. Would it be so wrong to take some comfort from what was left of him? From a demon who didn't care anyway? Surely the only person Sam would really be hurting was himself? Sam thought that he could live with that.

He held out for as long as he could, and it wasn't that long. A couple of weeks after Sam had left Dean on a bed in Piedmont, he picked up his phone, found his way to his archived messages and, trying not to look at the Photo, he tapped the call option next to the number. Dean hadn't left any more messages, or tried to call Sam since that last night. Sam had wondered why, and then decided that it was probably some game the demon was playing. Whatever. Let him play his games. Sam couldn't take it any longer, he needed to see Dean. Feel him.

It wasn't that Sam was addicted to the demon blood—even though he could still almost taste it, thick and intoxicating. But he _was_ starting to think that he might be addicted to Dean.

Dean answered lazily, but without the "Heya, Sammy" that Sam had been dreading. All Sam got was a "Yep?"

"We need to talk," Sam said, as curtly as he could. Talking was a legitimate reason for meeting up. And Sam did have some things that he felt he needed to say, or he really might end up losing his mind. Even if Dean couldn't hear them and the demon didn't care, Sam still needed to say them.

"'Bout what?" It sounded like Dean was barely listening to Sam, completely uninterested.

"Look can we just meet somewhere?" Sam said irritably. Of course the demon wasn't going to make it easy.

"You gonna bring that knife with?" Sam wasn't sure if what he heard in Dean's voice was hope or fear.

"Damn right I'm bringing it with, asshole, I'm not an idiot." Sam took a deep breath in, "But I'll keep it out in the open where you can see it, okay?"

"Yeah, that didn't help me much last time, kiddo." Sam winced at the familiarity. God, he missed his brother. The image of an angry, jagged and burnt 'S' carved into soft flesh flashed through Sam's mind, and his breath caught.

"Well, we need to talk, and that's the best I can do. Bring whatever weapon you need to make you feel comfortable. Even the score."

Dean snorted and Sam heard him mumble, "As if I need a weapon," before he said nonchalantly, "Sure Sammy, let's meet. Where do you wanna hook up?"

Another wince. Sam knew that Dean had used the phrase "hook-up" on purpose. Fuck, was he really so obvious?

They decided to meet at a pier they both knew on the Republican River. Not too far from Lebanon, and who the fuck knew where Dean was right then, but he agreed to it easily enough.

Sam hung up with a feeling of resigned dread.

Sam had almost forgotten that Cas was at the Bunker in his rush to get what he needed. He practically stumbled over him on his way out, duffle slung over one shoulder, car keys gripped tightly in his fingers.

"Another hunt?" Cas had been in one of the tub chairs by the 1950s drinks cabinet as Sam had walked through the library, barely visible in the corner with the lamp off

"Um. Cas. Sorry, I didn't see you there. Uh. Yep, it's just a quick thing I need to look into, it shouldn't take long at all. I'll be back tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest." Sam kept walking.

Cas started to lift himself out of the chair, with an effort. "Want me to...?"

"No!" _Keep it together, Sam_. "No, Cas, honestly dude, this will hardly even be a thing. You rest. You need to look after yourself, man. We need you." God, more than Cas would ever know. He was the only good thing Sam had left.

"But—"

"Cas, I'll be fine. Please. Just stay here and look after yourself."

Cas slumped back down, and although Sam felt guilty about lying to him, his friend did need to rest. He couldn't lose Cas too.

"Sam, I know something is wrong. I know you're hiding something from me. I can see that something has gone... very badly wrong. I don't need powers to see how you're going off the rails. I don't know how to help you. Please let me help." Cas sounded almost as broken as Sam felt.

His throat was tight again, and he really considered just telling Cas everything right there and then.

"I—can't Cas. I can't tell you, you can't help. Not yet. Maybe—Maybe soon. Maybe when I get back, I can... try. Just not now, okay? Not now."

Cas looked at Sam intently, and then nodded his head sadly.

"You know where I'll be. Always here for you, Sam." Cas coughed a little, reminding Sam of just how sick his friend still was. He walked across to the weapons trunk, and pulled out an old rug he knew was in there. Covering Cas with it, pulling it right up around his shoulders, he said, "I know, Cas. I know. You're family, man." And before he could say any more, or break down completely, Sam left.

Sam had been waiting at the pier for a good twenty minutes, before the Impala rumbled up. He had no doubt that the demon had kept him waiting on purpose. God, he was so pathetic. Dean parked the Impala right next to where Sam was leaning against a rail, and Sam could see that the car hadn't been washed in weeks. She was covered in grime and road dust, her windows were dirty, and there was even bird shit all over the rear window. A lump caught in his throat as he realised how neglected she'd been. Compared to how cared for, before…

Dean climbed out of the car, with a beer in his hand and casually leaned back against the car, right in front of Sam. He had sunglasses on. Sam could count on one hand the number of times he had seen Dean wearing sunglasses. Dean always said sunglasses were only for douchebags or hangovers. Point proven. This Dean was a douchebag, and more than likely had a hangover.

Dean took a sip from his beer, and looked out over the river. "What can I do for you, Sam?" As Dean pulled his mouth away from the lip of the bottle, Sam noticed that his lip was still swollen, the bite mark still visible and scabbed over. Sam unconsciously licked his lips at the sight. He couldn't know that Dean licked and bit at that mark so many times a day that it might never heal properly.

Dragging his eyes away from Dean's mouth, Sam tried to focus. Tried not to think of a branded 'S' on his brother's flesh. Now that he was here, Sam wasn't sure what to say. Or how to say it. How do you apologise for basically assaulting your brother, sexually no less, at the same time as kind of asking if they could do it again? Sam knew that there was something deeply wrong with him, and he was almost at the point where he didn't care anymore.

Sam took a breath. "Look." Another breath. "I know that you aren't Dean." Dean smirked. Sam pushed on. "And I know that you don't give a fuck, but you—you still look like him and sound like him and smell like him, and my fucking brain won't shut up about what I did to my brother. To you. And the guilt is driving me crazy, so I need to say it." Sam hadn't been looking at Dean as he spoke, but now he steadied himself and looked his brother straight in the eyes. "I'm sorry for what I did to you, Dean. No one deserves to be treated the way that I treated you. I'm disgusted with myself, and I'm just so sorry." Sam felt tears threatening, and he was not going to do that in front of _this _man. He cleared his throat and continued, "I know _you_ don't give a fuck. But Dean would have. And I do. So." Sam spread his hands a little as if to say take it or leave it.

Dean looked steadily at Sam while he lifted the bottle of beer to his mouth and took a long drink. Sam watched Dean's throat bob as he swallowed and felt his mouth go a little dry. Dean lowered the bottle and took a step toward Sam. In a low voice he said, "I liked it, Sam. _Dean_ liked it. Mostly. I haven't come so hard without being touched in fucking ages. Just your dick in me, pounding me, pounding my sweet spot, until I thought I'd pass out from the pleasure-pain. Fuck, Sam. Just thinking about it…" Dean gestured toward his groin and Sam could see he was getting hard. Dean took another step and leaned right in to Sam's space, and Sam could barely breath. He could smell the river and beer and Dean and fuck if he wasn't getting hard too. Dean leaned so close that Sam could feel his lips against his ear as Dean whispered into it, "Anytime you want to use me, baby boy, you just gotta ask."

Sam choked, hating the use of that endearment in that context and loving it a little as well.

"You want that? You want to _use_ me again, Sam?"

Sam managed to shake his head minutely.

Dean took a step back and looked at Sam, considering. Then he lifted his eyebrows and grinned. "_You_ want to be used? Is that it, Sam? You want me to use you up, abuse you, fuck you until you can't take any more and then make you beg for my cock anyway? You want me in your mouth, in your ass, in your fucking _soul_?"

_Always been in my soul, Jerk,_ Sam thought, but he didn't say anything. Just lifted his head a little and gave a quick nod. He didn't know if he was doing it as some sort of penance for what he had done to Dean, or because he was just that perverted, or because he needed his brother so badly that he was willing to take anything, _anything_, to feel some kind of connection to Dean again. All Sam knew was that he needed this. Whatever he could get, he needed it.

Dean stepped forward one last time and grabbed Sam's crotch, squeezing hard. "Then get in the car, Bitch," and he turned around and climbed into the driver's seat.

Not giving himself a chance to think, Sam walked around the Impala and folded himself back into the familiar passenger seat, keeping his eyes front, not looking at the state of the car, not looking at what used to be his brother.

By the time Dean pulled off the road, the light was beginning to fade. They hadn't said a word to each other during the drive, and Dean hadn't even put music on. Just another reminder that Sam didn't need that this was not his brother.

Dean had pulled off the tarmac onto a gravel road and from the gravel road onto what seemed like little more than a walking trail. He had finally pulled into a copse of trees, obscuring the waning light even more. It was dim and hushed among the trees and Sam could just barely make out the sound of cars from the main road.

For a moment, they both sat in silence. Sam wasn't going to break it, so he waited. He could play games too.

He heard the driver's door clicking open, before Dean said, "Get out." Sam did so, watching Dean climb out on the other side and stand with his back to him for a second. Sam had just enough time to wonder what expression would be on Dean's face if he could see it right now, when Dean turned around and looked straight at him, smirk firmly in place, and a glint in his eyes that Sam knew wasn't Dean. _Resigned dread_. Sam had known what he'd be getting himself into when he called Dean. He had asked for this.

"Over to the front of the car, Sam."

Sam walked around to the front and saw Dean lean in through the open window of the driver's side and heard a soft click, before he was blinded by the headlights of the Impala coming on. With the lights in his eyes, Sam couldn't see anything of Dean. But he could hear him just fine.

"Now. What should I do with you, hm? Your turn to strip for me I think, Sam. Stand right there, where I can see you real good, and take all your clothes off. Not too fast, not too slow. Just nice and easy."

Sam felt so exposed with the headlights right on him, and he not even able to see an outline of Dean. He knew that anyone who came near this spot would get a great show too. _You asked for this_.

As Sam started taking his clothes off, he heard a dark chuckle from the shadows. "What goes around comes around, right Sam? I feel like this is a very familiar situation, one of us stripping, the other giving orders. Socks too. Naked as the day you were born kiddo. Now, I want you to bend over the hood."

Sam bent over the Impala, the metal hot enough to be uncomfortable. He could do this.

"Stretch out…" Sam put more of his weight on the car, stretching out his arms, face turned toward the sound of Dean's voice. "Thaaat's it. That's just right." Sam could hear Dean walking now, hear the gravel crunching under his boots, until he knew Dean was standing right behind him. "Fuck, will you look at that," Dean muttered. He kicked his boot between Sam's feet, making him spread his legs, like he was about to frisk him. "Wider… yeah, just like that. Fuck. You got your phone, Sam? I would sure like to take a photo of this." Sam was grateful that he'd left the phone in the car back on the pier. He shook his head. "Too bad," Dean said, and Sam wondered why Dean just didn't use his own damn phone.

"No one has an ass like this, Sam," Dean said while palming Sam's ass cheeks, kneading them. "I've looked believe me, been trying to find something that will scratch this itch I seem to have for you. No one has been able to so far. Just. You. Fucking look at you."

Sam broke a little more. Of course the demon was sleeping around. Of course he was. What had Sam thought he would be doing while Sam was pining in the Bunker?That hurt way more than the burn of the metal of the hood against his naked chest, which Sam was sure would leave marks on his skin.

Dean didn't leave him much time to think about that though, before dropping to his knees and pulling Sam's ass cheeks apart. "Gonna have you begging Sam," he said, before he began licking at Sam's ass.

Sam had never felt anything like that before. Some part of his bookish brain was spewing facts at him like '_the anal sphincter has one of the densest concentrations of nerve endings_' but the rest of him was struck dumb by the intense pleasure that having Dean's tongue in his ass was giving him. He realised that he had started pushing back into Dean's face, and started feeling embarrassed before he realised who he was with and what they'd already done to each other.

Dean pulled away long enough to chuckle again and say "You like that huh? No-one ever eaten you out before, Sam? Am I your first?" Bastard. Fucking bastard, pressing all Sam's buttons like no-one but Dean had ever been able to.

"Shut up," Sam said. "I didn't come here for your scintillating conversation. Your tongue is obviously much better at other things."

"Scintillating?" Dean tsked. "That's a helluva word, Sam. I obviously need to work harder." And Dean got back to work.

He sucked and licked and fucked Sam with his tongue until Sam forgot everything but the sensation of Dean working him over. He realised with distant surprise that he was blurting a continuous stream of words. Things like, "Fuck, yes. Yeah just there. Oh my god—Don't… don't stop. Just. Please. Just please. _Please_. More. I need more. Fuck."

Eventually Dean pulled away and Sam heard a zipper and then a snicking noise, and then he felt the blunt head of Dean's slicked-up cock pushing relentlessly into him. It seemed that Dean's tongue was all the preparation he was going to get, but his body was fine with that. He opened up almost easily for Dean, and though Dean was persistent, he took his time, pushing into Sam slowly, until he was right up close, snug against Sam. Sam took a moment to relish the feeling, to pretend that it was just Dean and him, this close, with nothing between them.

But he could feel Dean's denim digging into his skin, knew that Dean was still fully clothed. He could feel the hot metal of the Impala's hood, cooler now, but still too hot on his blistering skin. And he could feel the grit on the hood scratching his cheek, as his body rocked with each of Dean's progressively deep thrusts.

"Is this what you wanted, Sam? Is this enough to scratch _your_ itch? Taking my dick like you were made to do only that? Holy hell, the way you feel, so tight around my cock… I want to come just like this, just like the last time. Your ass is so sweet, baby brother."

Dean grunted as he thrust out those last two words, and Sam shivered, knowing that Dean would feel it, would know what he was doing to him. "Well, your ass is not the prize this time. You want to be used? You want to be my fucktoy, Sam?" Dean slowly drew his finger down Sam's back, as if he were drawing something. Or writing something. Then he pulled out of Sam roughly, and twisted his hips around. "Then it's time to beg Sam. On your knees."

Sam didn't even hesitate. He hit the gravel so hard, he knew his knees would be bleeding, and he didn't really care. Dean stood just out of reach of Sam's mouth, so Sam wrapped his hand around the hard length and started stroking. Dean's cock was so slick and so hot, and it made Sam feel a little dirty knowing where Dean had just been, and a lot dirtier knowing that he was absolutely going to suck his brother off.

Dean looked down at Sam, coldly. "Beg," he said.

Again, Sam didn't hesitate. _You asked for this._

Leaning forward, Sam rubbed the tip of Dean's cock over his lips as he whined "Please Dean. Use my mouth. Use me any way you want, just _please_. I need this. I don't—I don't know…" _I don't know how to be without you_. "Just, _fuck_. Fuck my face, Dean. Fuck me. I'll do anything you want, just let me taste you, let me feel you, _please._"

With a groan of "cockslut" Dean slid into Sam's mouth, and pulled out again immediately, setting up a brutal pace, fucking Sam's mouth just like he'd asked.

"Like this? This what you need?"

Sam barely managed a nod and tried to keep up with Dean's thrusts, sucking as he could, licking what he could, holding on to Dean's ass trying to pull him in further.

"Fuck, Sam. I'm not gonna last with your slut mouth around my dick so good, shit. Get your fucking hands off of me and onto your own cock, Sam. You're going to come as I shoot down your goddamn throat.'

Sam was pulling on his own cock before Dean had finished speaking. He had barely noticed how hard he was, he'd been so focussed on Dean and the feeling of being used for Dean's pleasure. But getting his hands on himself was almost like being electrocuted and he came hard and fast.

"Fuck," Dean growled. "So hot." A few more hard thrusts and Dean was emptying down Sam's throat, pulse after pulse of salty fluid. Sam simply could not swallow it all and some dribbled out of the corner of his mouth and slid down his chin.

Before Sam could recover, Dean had hauled him up to his feet and was licking up his chin and along his lips and into his mouth.

"Do you taste that, baby?" Dean mumbled against Sam's lips between licks. "Can you taste _us_?"

Sam could and he savoured that taste. Savoured the soft licks and kisses, which didn't last nearly long enough for his liking.

"Good," Dean said, still sounding out of breath. "Now, get dressed and get your ass back in the car. I have places to be." And with that Dean took a step back, zipped up, and walked away to get in behind the steering wheel of the Impala.

Sam felt a little disoriented, but the rumble of the engine got him moving. This Dean would not wait around. He grabbed his clothes, pulling his jeans on as he went. Dean pulled away just as Sam sat down in the passenger seat and pulled the door closed. He concentrated on putting on the rest of his clothes as Dean drove, not looking over at him. His knees stung as his jeans pulled tight against them while he was bent over, lacing up his boots. Sam hissed as he pulled his t-shirt on, the fabric pulling on the blisters on his chest, which he'd forgotten about post-orgasm. He thought he saw Dean look over at him as the sound escaped his lips.

Dean pulled up to the pier, right next to Sam's car, and waited. He hadn't said a word during the drive back, and he didn't say a word now. Just waited. Sam opened the door and climbed out, feeling sore and well used. As he'd planned. _You asked for this_.

He didn't say a word either, just watched as Dean pulled away, the tires kicking up dirt as he increased his speed. Sam stood and watched until he could no longer see the rear lights of the Impala. Then he got into his car, sighed, and started for home.

On the drive back to the Bunker, something Dean had said before they'd left the pier together came back to him. "Dean liked it," he had said. He'd said that _Dean_ had liked it.

Sam was not okay.

**Chapter song: Abuse Me by Violet Winter**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Once again BookwormBaby2580 fixed my commas and improved my noun/pronoun mess. She also agreed that I should leave all the sex in.**

**Guys, there is A LOT sex in this chapter. Like. So much sex. Sorrynotsorry?**

**Thanks for reading this far! Two more chapters after this one.**

**Blah blah blah belongs to Eric Kripke blah blah.**

**Chapter 4 - A Heartless Lullaby**

**"****_How, like always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around you in an act of faith against the night."_**

**Richard Siken**

And that was how it went. For weeks. Months. Sam didn't even know—or care—anymore. A pattern had been established, an addiction had taken hold.

Sam didn't call Dean again. He didn't have to. It was as if his admitting that he needed whatever piece of his brother he could get, whatever piece he could hold on to, had given Dean the green light. Dean never tried phoning again, never left him voice messages. But he did text. No more photos. Mainly just times and places, occasionally instructions.

A few days after Sam had let Dean use him on the hood of the Impala, Dean had sent him coordinates with an imperative "NOW." All caps, nothing else.

Sam had thought about ignoring it for only a second. He knew he was kidding himself. He was going to go back, would go back again and again as long as Dean was offering. When he stopped offering? Well, Sam thought he had an idea about what he would do then, but he tried not to dwell on that scenario.

Not that his current situation was anything near the vicinity of good. It was like being trapped in a nightmare, but unable to wake himself up. He didn't _want_ to feel like this, didn't _want_ to need Dean so badly, didn't want the only thing left of his brother to be a demon. Sam would've done anything to get Dean back, anything. Even worse things than what he was currently doing. He'd thought about trying to get the real Dean back, but he didn't know if there was anything of the real Dean left. What if he just destroyed the shell and there _was nothing else_? He had thought about the demon cure, but Dean's body still had the Mark of Cain branded on to it. Sam had no idea if there was even a possibility of the cure working on a person who wasn't possessed but had become their own demon, with the Mark of Cain to boot. Sam didn't think he had enough confessions in him to purify his blood to the degree that would be needed to have an effect on the evil that now encompassed his brother. He would have to subdue Dean first, a man who now had the extra strength and speed of a creature from Hell. And Sam was so goddamn tired and weak. He felt like it was all he could do to leave his bed in the mornings. And of course, to meet up with the reason for his current state of despair.

Cas had watched Sam leave much like last time, Sam lifting the phone as he walked past saying, "got a lead. See you later." He couldn't think about Cas right now. Maybe tomorrow. He had told Cas that he would try, and bless the man, Cas was giving him time to do just that. Just another thing to make Sam feel like he was the most awful person on the face of the planet. How could he ever tell Cas any of this? Sam was beginning to think that he would rather die.

The coordinates Dean had sent led Sam to a dive bar on the outskirts of Osborne. It was only about twenty minutes from the Bunker. Dean must have made sure that he was within easy driving distance of Sam, and Sam did not know what to make of that.

As Sam pulled into the gravel parking area, he saw a few long-haulers parked a ways away in an area obviously meant for the oversized vehicles. So the bar would be full of irritable truckers, probably drunk, probably just looking to pick a fight. Dean had more than likely picked this place on purpose, an extra element of danger.

Great.

Well, Sam was in it now. No turning back. So he climbed out of the car and headed almost reluctantly towards the door, giving the Impala's roof an affectionate pat as he passed her. She was dirtier than ever and Sam wiped his hand off on his jeans.

He stepped slowly through the door, squinting through the haze of smoke and dim light, trying to get a fix on the layout (old habit) and catch a glimpse of Dean. Sam saw him almost immediately, leaning over an old pool table, working the same old hustle that he always had. Dean made a shot that seemed to end the game, if the amount of groaning and cussing that came from the small group of burly men standing around the table was anything to go by. As Dean stood up he saw Sam, and that glint came into his eyes. He grinned at Sam, tossed his stick onto the table with a "Sorry guys, my date is here. Time to pay up." The men were obviously not happy about any part of what Dean had said, but they handed over a pile of notes, made some snide remarks, and shuffled back to their grimy tables, obviously intent on keeping an eye on Dean and his "date."

Fantastic.

"You want a beer?" Dean asked as he walked up to Sam. He was waving the banknotes in his hand, as if him paying for Sam's drink would be some grand gesture.

Sam shrugged. "Sure. And a shot of tequila."

Dean's grin got bigger, and he turned to give the order to the barman—who gave both of them a very suspicious look but got their drinks.

"Nice place. Seems like you made some friends," Sam commented while looking around, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"It was nearby," Dean said, like that explained everything.

Sam turned to look at Dean, hoped that Dean would see contempt in his eyes. Pretty sure all he saw was need. "You planning on getting assaulted, tonight?

Dean hummed. "Not by any of them." He jerked his head back to indicate the Neanderthals who were still watching them.

The guy behind the bar brought them their drinks, and Sam slammed his tequila down, earning an approving look from Dean. _Fuck him_, he thought, as he grabbed the bottle of beer and turned around on his stool, leaning back on the bar. This gave him a good view of the door and the bruisers in the corner. He reckoned he could take the barman no problem, but he needed to be able to see what was going on in the rest of the bar. Not watching Dean, Sam took a long drink of his beer and didn't say another word.

After a few moments, Dean turned around as well, and Sam felt a flash of that old feeling; him and Dean, shoulder to shoulder, about to face down some threat. He shrugged that off, as Dean lifted his bottle in the direction of the truckers, toasting them. He was grinning at them as if he was their greatest pal, but Sam heard him mutter under his breath, "cocksuckers. I _dare_ you."

Sam had to admit that he felt a little better hearing that. Dean was up for a fight, which was not a surprise but which also meant that Sam would not be left to defend himself alone, should it come to that.

Fortunately, a busload of college soccer players burst into the place shortly afterward, obviously still on a high from winning some game. Sam couldn't believe that any coach in his right mind could think this was an okay kind of place to bring kids. Okay, young adults. But none of them seemed to notice what a crappy place it was and they all crowded around the bar laughing, loudly asking for sodas and fries (which apparently the place served, but Sam wouldn't have eaten anything to come out of a kitchen belonging to this place) some trying their luck and asking for beers and getting a stink eye from the barman. Sam was sure the guy didn't care about the drinking age, but he was carefully not looking at the two coaches who were now standing on either end of the bar, keeping authoritative eyes over the proceedings. He probably would rather not be reported. More than likely had a record.

The kids had kept crowding against the bar, pushing and shoving and laughing and Sam saw Dean duck under all the arms and through all the legs. And followed him. Dean was walking to the back, in the direction of the bathrooms, but when Sam got to the men's room door, he saw the door at the end of the hall slowly closing. Sam took a quick look into the bar, to see if anyone had noticed, if anyone was still watching, but the kids had crowded the place completely and covered Sam and Dean's exit. Lucky.

So Sam continued walking, opening the back door and stepping into the open air of the warm summer evening. And was slammed back against the wall, pushed right up against it. He could feel the rough brick through his shirt, but Dean was sucking at his neck and squeezing him through his jeans, so he couldn't really care about his clothes or skin scraping against bricks.

"Can't wait. Just wanna..." Dean was panting into Sam's skin, licking and sucking at his neck, and chin, pulling his shirt to the side so that he could bite at Sam's shoulder. And he was rubbing up against Sam, pushing their groins together so hard it almost hurt, but Sam had been hard the moment Dean had grabbed at him, and the feeling of Dean up against him was delicious.

"Hang on. Hang on," Sam mumbled as he worked his hands between their bodies.

Dean didn't seem at all inclined to wait, but Sam finally got his hands on Dean's waistband and managed to undo his button and zipper. The sigh that came from Dean as he was released was filled with need. Sam worked at his own jeans until their naked cocks were rubbing up against each other. Not enough precome to make it totally comfortable, but neither of them really seemed to mind. The catch of dry skin on dry skin just made the occasional slide against a slick patch that much more pleasurable. Their hands were too busy pulling at one another—hair, skin, clothes—to be of much help, but eventually Sam needed more than the rough thrusting of his brother's body against his. Sam grabbed the hand that was pulling at his hair and pulled it down to where their hard flesh was meeting. Sam wrapped their hands around their cocks, his hand covering Dean's slightly smaller one, and linking their fingers, started up a rhythm.

"Fuck yes," Dean groaned and squeezed his hand tighter around their lengths. The pressure on his dick, pressed up against his brother's, made Sam see stars. He came first, the feeling of the warm liquid coating both of them so decadent. The added lubrication was obviously what Dean needed because after a few more tugs he came with a jerk and a grunt, head collapsing against Sam's chest, his hot breath panting a damp patch into Sam's t-shirt.

Dean chuckled, still breathing hard. "Scratch that off today's to-do list."

Sam's eyes fell closed. His other hand, which had begun petting at Dean's hair, dropped. He nudged Dean away, wiping his hand on his t-shirt and hating the fact that he'd be driving home wearing that t-shirt. He pulled his jeans straight, zipped up and threw Dean a "thanks for the drink," as he walked back to his car. What else was there to say, really?

About a week later, Sam was on a legitimate hunt. He hadn't even had to lie to Cas this time. Besides, Cas had been busy with Hannah, so Sam had hardly even felt guilty. It was a relief. A guy that Sam had taken psych class with at Stanford had tracked him down through Becky Warren, who Sam hadn't heard from since about a year after the shifter case in St Louis. Becky and her brother Zach had made a genuine effort to keep in touch, but in the end Sam had realised that Dean was right. In their job it was just illogical to keep close to people, to think you could hang on to old friendships. Sam had let them go.

So he was pretty surprised to hear from Dan, who he had barely known at Stanford. But Becky must've let slip what it was he did, and people remembered that sort of thing when their students started inexplicably dying.

Dan was teaching now at Southern Utah University, which had quite a reputation for being haunted. Of course no-one at the University really took it seriously, but Sam had seen it mentioned in John's journal and was kind of surprised that they hadn't found their way there before now.

The job ended up being a form of ghost sickness. A few decades back a psychology student by the name of Nash had started having delusions and was soon diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. Poor kid had been some sort of genius, but his mental breakdown had led to him stabbing his pencil through his wrists late one night in the psychology lecture hall. If they'd found the guy in time, he could have been saved. The wounds were deep but the points of entry relatively small, nothing that would've been impossible to patch up. It must've taken a fair amount of time for him to bleed out. Apparently the pencil had hung around campus as some sort of underground talisman, infecting the kids who used it and pushing them to their own deaths. The deaths had escalated in the last year or so—Sam hadn't been able to figure out why—and Dan had called him, desperate. It hadn't been easy to find the right pencil on a college campus, but he'd gotten the job done, burning both pencil and Nash's bones for good measure.

Dan had been really thankful and really relieved to see Sam go.

When Sam got to his hotel—he'd splurged on a nice room with a big tub for a change, after all he'd only been paying for one person the last few months—he spotted the Impala parked across the street and sighed. His heart rate sped up and his jeans started to feel a little tight. He knew full well what would happen.

Sam hadn't expected Dean to have gained access to his room, but then he really wasn't that surprised either

"Told her you were my brother, and I wanted to surprise you. Gave her the full works so she caved pretty easily," Dean shrugged. He was reclining on the bed, looking like he owned the place, eating candy from a brown paper bag in his lap, which he gestured to, asking "Want some?"

"No," Sam said simply, pulling off his boots and walking into the bathroom. He ran himself a bath, trying not to wonder if Dean would hang around or leave. Trying not to hope that he would stay. But he was sweaty, had graveyard dirt, bone ash and ectoplasm all over and, regardless of what might or might not happen later, Sam needed to get the stench of that hunt off of himself.

He gave himself the luxury of having a long soak, before cleaning himself thoroughly using up three of the hotel's tiny complimentary bottles of body wash and rinsing all the remnants of the salt and burn out of his hair. After climbing out of the tub and wrapping himself in one of those soft hotel towels, he made sure to rinse all the grit and grime which had settled at the bottom of the tub down the drain. Then he turned around, straightened his shoulders, and opened the door, ready to deal with whatever was, or was not, in the room beyond.

Dean was still there. Still munching candy. He had turned the TV on with the sound down low, and was quietly laughing at whatever was showing. He looked so much like his brother, face stuffed full, laughing at some inane show, that Sam's heart broke. He missed Dean so much. When Sam stepped out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam followed him and he kind of hoped that it looked really dramatic. The towel was wrapped tightly around his waist. He didn't want to seem too eager or seductive. Besides, Dean already knew he was a sure thing. Pathetic.

Dean watched Sam walk over to his duffel bag and start sorting through clothes, looking for something to put on.

"Don't," he said.

Sam turned his head towards the bed, still rummaging in his bag. "Don't what?"

"Don't get dressed. I've got plans for you tonight kid, and they don't include clothes."

When Sam stood back up and turned around, dropping the briefs he'd had in his hands, Dean had stood up from the bed and was pulling off his own clothes. There was nothing rushed about it, it was totally casual, almost domestic. He took everything off but his own briefs, then looked over at Sam.

"C'mon, Sam. I want you on the bed. Make sure you're comfortable. You're going to be there for a while.

He'd asked for this. He wanted this. God, he really wanted this.

So he did as Dean asked. The tone of Dean's voice had made clear it _was_ a request. No orders, not yet. Sam could still say no, kick the demon out. But he wouldn't and Dean knew he wouldn't. He was smiling at Sam with a knowing smile that was seventy percent Dean with the rest all demon. Sam found it difficult to look at him.

As he was making himself comfortable on the bed, he looked over at Dean who was busy with something at the dresser. Dean looked into the mirror and saw Sam watching him. He smiled again, and gave a little twist of his head, which Sam took to mean that he should turn over onto his stomach. Leaving one pillow for his head and placing another under his hips, Sam shoved the rest onto the floor and, wrapping his arms around the pillow at his head, he lay down, face turned towards Dean, who was now walking back to the bed.

Sam was bone tired and the bed was really comfortable, but when Dean climbed onto the bed and straddled him Sam knew there was no danger of him falling asleep. The feeling of his brother's naked flesh against his was something Sam didn't think he could ever get used to or grow tired of. It lit him up inside.

"Aw, poor baby," Dean cooed, in a tone that was just this side of mocking. "Did the mean ghost throw you around. Did he hurt you? Is your giant body sore and aching?"

Sam ignored the mild taunting, and asked, "How did you know it was a ghost? Were you working the case too?"

"Nah. Knew you had this one in the bag. Unlike that wendigo you let go free in Piedmont."

Jesus. He _had_. Sam had driven away from Piedmont after using Dean up, and hadn't even given it a second thought. What the fuck was wrong with him?

_Where to start_…

"Don't sweat it Sam. I took him out. Needed to work through some kinks anyway, the workout did me a world of good."

Sam couldn't see Dean's face but he would've bet the Bunker that Dean had winked at him as he said that.

"Oh. Well... thanks," Sam said softly.

"No problem. It's what big brothers do, or so I've heard. Take care of their pain-in-the-ass little brothers. Apparently that's a thing."

Sam didn't buck Dean off of his body and run out the room screaming, but it was a near thing. Instead he just squeezed his eyes tightly shut and swallowed hard. Squeezed the pillow a little tighter. And didn't say a word.

Dean trailed his fingers along Sam's skin, like he was stroking a spooked cat. "Don't think I've gone soft, kiddo. Just need you relaxed. Pliable," Dean tagged on darkly. "We're a few days from Lebanon, I have nowhere to be, you're avoiding the angel... I've been waiting for the opportunity to take my time with you, Sam."

And he took his time. Dean used his hands and his fingers and his tongue to relax every inch of Sam's body. Before Dean had even got to his ass, Sam was a shivering mess. Nothing but small whines were escaping from him, but Dean had seemed to understand him just fine.

"I know, baby. I know what you need," Dean said, turning all his attention on Sam's ass. Sam was getting used to the constant contrast of bliss and disgust that being with Dean made him feel. He barely cringed at the hated 'baby.' And the things Dean was doing with his fingers back there, helped Sam to not think about it. God, his fingers were magic. Sam thought about how Dean's fingers had now touched every inch of him and it made him shiver.

Dean slowly worked up to three fingers and then four, the lube slick and warm, in absolutely no hurry, seeming for all the world as if the only thing he cared about was Sam's pleasure.

"Gonna make you come just like this, little brother. On my fingers. All you get is my fingers. We are going to stay right here, just like this, me working your hole with my fingers, until you fucking come."

Dean said it like a threat, like it was something that Sam wouldn't be able to do, but Sam was already so close that a little while later—or hours later, Sam's time sense was literally fucked—Sam did just that. He came without a touch on his dick for the first time in his life, Dean biting and sucking at his back as Sam spasmed around his fingers.

"So. Fucking. Hot."

After that, after Dean had done what he had meant to do—take his time with Sam, and drive him out of his ever-loving mind—he wasted no time in fucking Sam hard and fast into the mattress. Sam was so sexed up and sated that he barely noticed, but Dean didn't seem to mind, and when he was done, he collapsed on top of Sam, breathing hard.

Eventually he got up and pulled away. Sam assumed he was going to leave, which was fine with him. He actually felt pretty good, comparatively speaking, and was sure he would get the best night's sleep he'd had in ages. But he'd been wrong. It was Dean who cleaned him up this time, doing a pretty thorough job. Then he rolled Sam over so that he could lift the duvet, and rolled Sam back pulling the covers over him. And Dean got in on the other side of the bed, turned the lights off and went to sleep. The bed was big, and they lay on opposite sides of it. There was no cuddling, no sort of affection. But Dean was there. He stayed. And Sam didn't know what to do with that.

In the morning, Dean was gone. There were no messages on Sam's phone.

Dean only waited a day and a half before he texted Sam again. Sam was in the car still making his way back to the Bunker when he got the text. He was taking his time driving back home, trying to figure things out. Okay, he was avoiding Cas. He was absolutely avoiding Cas. They'd kept in touch, but Sam knew that the next time he saw the angel, he would have to have something to tell him, one way or another.

So Dean wanting to meet up at a small motel just east of Grand Junction—almost exactly halfway between Cedar City and Lebanon—was in all honesty, a relief. It meant that he could put off talking to Cas. Also, Sam was ninety-nine percent sure now, that Dean _was_ following him. The hookup locations were just too convenient. Sam had tried to be extra vigilant, wanting to catch Dean out, but so far he hadn't been able to see any sign of him. Then suddenly there would be a text directing Sam to a place relatively close to his current location. Sam had even started asking at gas stops and motels if anyone had seen a '67 Impala, but nobody ever had. And it was hard to miss that car.

Dean was just that good.

Sam met him at the motel, and Dean was in a more reserved mood than Sam had seen him in since their time together during the wendigo hunt. Not quite as silent, but also not the cocky, dirty-talking son-of-a-bitch Sam was getting used to.

Dean offered Sam a glass of whisky. A real glass. And not-too-cheap whisky. Sam accepted it and sat down on one of the beds. Two beds this time, unlike the first night. He took a big swig of the amber liquid, put the glass on the carpet next to him, and bent over to unlace his boots. Might as well get undressed. There was no point in pretending anything other than sex was going to happen.

Dean stood in the middle of the room, sipping from his own glass, watching Sam. When Sam was down to his underwear, he looked up and asked, "So? Where do you want me?"

Dean smiled a grim smile, gulped down the remainder of his drink, putting the glass on top of the old TV set as he walked past it on his way to the bed. "Lie down, Sam. On your back," he said, and started taking off his own clothes.

Something felt different to Sam. Dean was obviously in some mood, but he couldn't read this Dean like he used to be able to read his brother. If it _had_ been his brother, Sam would've said that something was bothering him, some problem was on his mind. And also that he was a little sad. But it wasn't his brother, not really. Sam didn't ask what was wrong, didn't want to care if the demon who'd destroyed his brother was upset about something. So he didn't. He made himself comfortable on the bed and waited. When Dean was naked, he leant over Sam, and pulled Sam's briefs down his legs. There was nothing seductive about it, just getting rid of something there was no need for, something that would be in the way. Then Dean crawled onto the bed and straddled Sam.

Sam had not been expecting that. His eyes widened and he lifted his eyebrows at Dean in a question.

"You just lie there, brother. I don't need you to do a single thing but watch and take it." With that, Dean reached behind and started fingering himself. "Spent some time in the shower this afternoon, Sam. Worked myself open just for you. For your huge—" Dean broke off with a little grunt. Sam could see he wasn't being very gentle. "Made sure I'd be all slick inside, ready and waiting." After only a minute or so—plenty of time for Sam to get hard, the sight of what Dean was doing to himself _for_ Sam was crazy hot—Dean reached for Sam's cock and positioned it at his opening. Then he slowly lowered himself onto Sam's lap. Dean had not been lying, he took Sam easily. Almost no resistance, like sliding into hot, wet silk.

"Fuuuuck," Sam groaned, drawing the word out.

That same grim smile was still on Dean's face, and Sam was sure now that he _was_ sad. Which made absolutely no sense.

"Needed to do this face to face. Even just once. I needed to watch you while I took you, while I rode you."

Dean was speaking so quietly, almost as if he was talking to himself, that Sam wasn't sure if he had even been meant to hear any of that. It had sounded so much like his brother—except that his brother would never had said such things. _Just this once_, Sam thought to himself, and looked at the man on top of him. Looked right at him and never stopped looking. And pretended it was his Dean. It wasn't at all hard to do. The demon was fucking him slowly, almost gently, and taking him so deep inside himself. There was an emotional intensity to it that took Sam's breath away.

It was slow and sensual, and so fucking sexy. Dean was driving both of them toward their orgasms, patiently but relentlessly. After what felt like a lifetime, Dean took himself in hand and made sure he got there ahead of Sam. The feel of Dean's come splattered across his chest, and of Dean clenching around him made Sam fall not too long after. Dean was leaning over him breathing hard, his hands on Sam's chest keeping him upright, his head bowed. Sam had no idea what to say.

Sam slipping out of him seemed to rouse Dean and he straightened, then sat back on Sam's thighs. He took a long look at Sam's body, head to groin, but without looking at Sam's eyes. Sam watched Dean's eyes though, and he was pretty sure they were cataloguing all the marks that were visible on his body. Bruises on his hips, small scabs where the blisters on his chest from the Impala's hot hood had healed over, various bite marks and hickies, other bruises... Dean's scrutiny made Sam wonder about the marks _he'd _ left on Dean's body. Dean's lip was healed, the cut on his neck barely visible. The angle wasn't quite right so Sam couldn't see if his own bite mark was still on Dean's shoulder. He couldn't let himself think of the _other_ mark... Strange things happened to Sam's emotions when he thought about the other mark. So instead he focused on the Mark of Cain on Dean's arm, which was horribly clear, even in the dim light. His emotions about that mark, at least, were clear.

"...think I like this," Dean swiped a finger through a drop of the cooling fluid on Sam's chest and brought it to his mouth, "better than all these other marks." He put his finger in his mouth and sucked it clean. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, the sight too much. The words way too much.

Dean looked at Sam for a while longer, and then he got up and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Sam heard the shower start up.

Ten minutes later, Dean was putting his clothes back on, and gathering his things. "Should still be hot water for you. And the room is paid up for the night. You can stay. Or go. Whatever." And just before he shut the motel room door behind him on his way out, Sam heard, "See ya around, Sammy."

When Sam finally got back to the Bunker, Cas wasn't there. He'd let Sam know that he'd be busy with Hannah for a few days. He'd asked Sam to take care of himself.

So Sam had been haunting the Bunker for almost a week, not knowing what to do with himself, not having the motivation to work. He still couldn't sleep, he couldn't concentrate on reading, he'd tried watching some of the TV shows they'd put on the laptop for Cas, but he couldn't focus and lost the thread of the plot lines. 'Haunting' was really the only word for what Sam had been doing.

Finally Cas had phoned and told Sam that he was on his way back and would more than likely be home the following day. That made Sam feel better and much worse. He had been lying on his bed trying not to think about how he was going to deal with Cas, when a text came through. Picking up his phone, the locked screen lighting up to show 02:07am, Sam opened the text. It was from Dean. It read, "I'm outside."

Sam scrambled off of his bed so fast, he almost tripped over the boots that he'd left lying there. _Outside?! What does he mean 'outside'?!"_ Dean could not be at the Bunker. Surely he wasn't that crazy.

Sam pulled his boots onto his bare feet, and without doing up the laces, threw on the first t-shirt he saw, and ran up to the Bunker's entrance. Sure enough, there was the Impala, looking so right parked in front of the Bunker even dirty as she was. Sam could've wept. And he was pissed.

Sam strode up to where Dean was sitting sideways on the backseat, legs hanging out the door and whisper-shouted, "What the fuck do you think you're doing here? Are you nuts? Cas could be here, _anyone_ could be here, and they would not hesitate to send you straight to Hell!"

Dean looked at Sam calmly. "_Is _anyone here?"

"You're keeping tabs on me!" Sam accused. "You're staking out the Bunker too? You are nuts. Have to be. You must have a death wish." Sam was exasperated. And frustrated with himself, because if someone would just send this bastard to Hell, all Sam's problems would be sorted. Well. One major one would be anyway. But then people would find out about everything and that could NOT happen.

"Aw, don't be mad, baby." The son-of-a-bitch was back. "Just needed a fuck and I was in the area, and you're in the area..." Dean shrugged. "It's not a big deal, the angel is out of town, and you're allll aloooone." Dean took a swig from a bottle Sam hadn't noticed he was holding. This was the cheap whiskey.

"Christ, you're drunk!"

"Not too drunk. C'mon little brother. Let me—" and Dean reached for him, pulled him in by the waistband of his sleep pants. Sam made a half-hearted attempt to pull away, thought that he probably shouldn't have sex with a drunk demon, and then laughed out loud. Because the 'drunk' was the bit he was worrying about. _Nevermind the part about 'demon' or 'brother'..._

They ended up sprawled on the back seat of the Impala, kissing sloppily and thrusting against each other. Sam's sleep pants came off easily. Dean's jeans and boots were a bit more of a challenge. They didn't bother taking off their t-shirts. Dean got Sam to lie back on the seat, and with some careful maneuvering and bumping of elbows and knees, he climbed over Sam with his mouth to Sam's cock, his cock to Sam's eager mouth. Dean's right leg was bent next to Sam's head, while his left was planted on the floor of the Impala, helping to hold the position.

They sucked each other off like that, quick and dirty. Dean's mouth was full of Sam, but Sam had no doubt that if his mouth hadn't been occupied, it would have been spewing filth at him. This was the same man from the first night, the same man from the night on the hood of the Impala. Sam had recognised the glint in his eye. Even drunk, maybe especially when drunk, this was the cruel user and abuser.

What was Sam thinking? It was all the same fucking demon who had left him without a brother.

Dean sucked a bruise into Sam's hip. In retaliation, Sam left a bite mark on Dean's, sucking at his teeth to get at the faint flavor of Dean's blood. When they had both finished, and the demon had gotten what he came for, he put his shoes and jeans back on, kicked Sam out the car, climbed behind the wheel, and drove away, waving at Sam from the car window.

Sam stood looking down the road for a long time after the car was gone. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

It took Dean a couple of weeks to contact Sam after that. And Sam had started to panic. What if something had happened? What if Dean—the demon—was dead? What if Sam had done something wrong and Dean didn't want him anymore? What if he'd found someone else, someone better?

Because, see the thing was? Sam needed this. He needed this slice of Dean. Needed anything he could get. The demon knew that. That was why Sam kept going back, letting Dean do what he wanted to him, whatever he wanted. He didn't think there was a limit to what he would let Dean do to him, and while that was terrifying, for Sam the more terrifying thing was for there to be nothing left of Dean for him to hold on to. For that last slice to be taken away.

So when Dean finally did contact him, Sam practically fell over himself in his rush to get to the address Dean had sent. And loathed himself for it.

Dean had picked a pretty nice place on the banks of Lovewell Reservoir, barely half an hour's drive from Lebanon. Sam was sure the view would be nice during the day. As it was, the small porch that Dean was standing on when Sam drove up looked over a large expanse of blackness. Nothing was visible but the stars.

One bed this time, and Dean had apparently been busy setting up while he waited for Sam. As Sam stepped into the room, he saw a bottle of lube on the nightstand, and a set of cuffs hanging from a post at each of the four corners of the bed. Sam had no doubt that this bed was at least one of the reasons Dean had chosen this place.

"Ain't scared of a little restraint, are you kiddo?" That oily feeling returned with the way Dean said those words.

Sam looked at Dean and considered. Either this was just another kink, and Sam would go away feeling sated and disgusted with himself and hoping for more, or the demon planned to have his way with Sam and kill him. The handcuffs would make sure that Sam would not be able to defend himself.

When Sam thought about those two possible outcomes, really the worst case scenario seemed like the better option.

So Sam shrugged and started to undress.

"That's m'boy," Dean said smugly.

_Jesus, if he would just shut up_, Sam thought. These little phrases, little endearments were the worst sort of torture for Sam. And he knew the demon was getting them straight from Dean's memories and it hurt so much.

Within a couple of minutes Sam was lying naked on the bed and Dean was positioning him just as he wanted him. He pulled Sam's limbs toward each corner of the bed so that he was spreadeagled, and fastened the cuffs around Sam's wrists first, and then his ankles. Sam had never really had kinky sex before. Nothing like this. But he and Jess had played around with cuffs from an Adult Store a few times, and Sam knew that those cuffs had some sort of fabric or cushioning on the inside to prevent injuries. The cuffs Dean was using were not those kind of cuffs. These were police-issue, hard metal, nothing to prevent chafing or the breaking of skin. _You asked for this_.

"Oh man, will you look at that," Dean declared when he had snapped closed the last handcuff. "That is fucking gorgeous."

Sam tried not to blush from shame, but from the look on Dean's face he failed miserably.

"You're like some fucking work of art, Sam. Should be on display so that people can see how filthy-gorgeous you are."

Sam's heart jumped. What if that's what the demon planned? To put Sam on display. _Oh god, oh god, oh god_. Sam started to panic, his breathing coming fast and hard.

Dean patted Sam's ankle, and started to undress himself. "Don't worry little brother. No-one but us here tonight. But it's a thought, yes? Maybe..."

"No." Sam said it decisively, with as much authority as he could muster while naked and tied to a bed.

Dean chuckled. "We'll see. You're awfully persuadable, Sam."

He was, Sam knew it. Especially when it came to his brother. God, he wished it would all just end.

Dean walked around the bed, checking the cuffs and stroking any bit of Sam's skin that he could reach, making Sam shiver.

"Let's get started."

Dean climbed over Sam and reached for the bottle of lube, putting it on the mattress next to him. He started at Sam's mouth, licking his way inside and kissing Sam long and hard. Sam wanted to touch and was already pulling on the restraints, reflexively trying to pull his arms in, so that he could wrap them around Dean. Dean just chuckled at every clink of the cuffs. He kissed his way around Sam's neck, biting along the flesh, and then licking, paying special attention to the dip at Sam's clavicle. By the time Dean got to Sam's chest, Sam was breathless with need. Every pleasurable touch was intensified by the strain on his shoulders, on his calf and thigh muscles, and the stinging rawness where the cuffs were chafing against his flesh.

Dean spent a good long while sucking at Sam's nipples, pulling at them with his teeth and then licking them soothingly. He did this over and over and over again until Sam was quivering.

"Come on, you... Please just. I need you to touch me. This—it's driving me crazy."

Dean looked up with that oily grin. "But I _am_ touching you, Sam."

"No, I—" Sam broke off as Dean bit down on his left nipple.

"Shut up," Dean said, and the menace in his voice sent shivers down Sam's spine. Although he was getting lost in the pleasure and the pain of what was happening to him, Sam hadn't forgotten the two possible outcomes, and nothing so far had yet pointed in either direction definitively.

Sam stopped talking then. But he made plenty of noise. Every time Dean bit down on a piece of skin, Sam would hiss, every time he sucked, Sam would groan. His tongue left Sam whimpering. By the time Dean was eye level with Sam's cock, Sam was practically incoherent.

"I like you this way, kid," Dean said as he coated his fingers with lube. "Your big brain shut down. No words, no thoughts, nothing but need, need, need. I think I'll keep you like this for a while."

Dean started to work on Sam's opening, ignoring his very hard erection. With one finger, he rubbed at Sam's insides until he found his prostate, and then with every alternate in-stroke he made sure that he brushed that bundle of nerves, making Sam gasp and twist and pull against the cuffs. Dean kept it at one finger for long minutes before adding a second, and then continued the torture. By the time Dean was up to three fingers, Sam was on the brink of coming. Dean went back to two fingers, avoiding the sweet spot. When Sam had calmed down, Dean started up again. Once or twice he pulled out completely and squeezed hard around the base of Sam's cock. "Oh no little brother," he said. "Not until I decide that you can."

Eventually, Dean had four fingers in Sam, and was twisting his wrist in a way that made Sam's eyes roll back. Once again, Sam came to the brink, only to have Dean pull out and stop all stimulation. When Dean said, "I think you're ready for my cock, Sam," Sam thought he might cry with relief.

Dean slicked up his cock, which was unnecessary considering the amount of lube he had already used on Sam's ass, and positioned himself at Sam's entrance. Then he slammed into Sam so hard, it punched all the air out of him, and Sam was left gasping and groaning as Dean pulled out and slammed back in. Dean's pace was punishing, and Sam found himself wondering if that was what this was. Some sort of punishment for… what? The pleasure and pain were getting mixed up in Sam's nerve endings, and he knew he was pulling too hard on the restraints, that he would have serious welts in his skin, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted to touch Dean, to hold him. He wanted to get away from him. He never wanted to leave. He was pulling against all the conflicted feelings raging within himself. He was pulling so that he _would _hurt himself.

Dean's thrusts weren't aimed at giving Sam pleasure, were only focused on ensuring his own. But every now and then he still hit that spot, and after he had Sam gasping and begging, "touch me, _please_, I need to, just _touch _me," he mercifully wrapped his hand around Sam's incredibly hard cock. It took only a few strokes before Sam came, spasming uncontrollably, his arm and leg muscles pulling powerfully against the cuffs, his skin breaking against the metal.

A few thrusts more and Dean followed him, but Sam was barely aware of his brother collapsing on top of him, chest heaving, breath hot against his chest. He hardly noticed when Dean pulled out of him, or when he climbed off the bed, and started unlocking the cuffs.

When Sam began to be aware again of what was happening around him, the covers had been pulled off the bed, and he was lying on the clean sheets underneath. He felt clean and instead of smelling sweat and sex, his skin smelled of soap. He was too tired to lift his head properly, so he moved it from side to side, trying to get his bearings. He saw Dean busy with something in the bathroom. He hadn't really expected him to still be here. Sam tested his arms and legs, contracting the muscles, lifting them a little. Everything worked okay. And everything _hurt like a motherfucker._

"You're awake." Dean said without emotion as he stepped back into the room.

"Was I... sleeping?" Sam asked, his words a little slurry, his mouth very dry.

"You were definitely out of it, sleeping or not." Dean had put one knee on the bed and was leaning over Sam. "Let me see," he reached for Sam's wrists. Sam wanted to pull away but simply didn't have the strength. What the fuck did Dean think he was doing?

'Not too bad," Dean muttered. "Still..." he went back into the bathroom and fetched what looked like two tubes of lotion.

"Roll over," he ordered. Sam looked at him blankly.

"Fuck, could you just," Dean muttered angrily as he climbed onto the bed and rolled Sam's body over so that he was lying on his stomach. Then he straddled Sam and started rubbing arnica cream into Sam's shoulder muscles. Sam recognised the smell; they always kept some handy for muscle sprains. Tears sprang to his eyes. Sam felt like he'd stepped into some alternate universe. _What the fuck was happening?_

Dean rubbed the arnica into Sam's shoulders, and down along his right bicep and forearm, stopping just short of his wrist. Then he did the same to the other arm. He rubbed the lotion along Sam's spine, and spent some extra time on the muscles in Sam's lower back. Then he moved down and worked the arnica into Sam's thigh and calf muscles one leg at a time. He wasn't particularly gentle but he wasn't rough either. By the time he was finished, Sam was sobbing quietly into the pillow.

He thought Dean was finished with him when he felt him climb off the bed, hoping that he would leave, but then he felt Dean lift his foot, and begin to rub something cool into the tortured skin there. He finished with both ankles and came up to Sam's wrists. Sam turned his head and opened his eyes enough to take a peek. He saw Dean concentrating on rubbing some kind of gel into the welt on his wrist. The tube on the bed next to him read 'Aloe Gel: for wounds and abrasions.'

And that was it. Sam could not take one more moment. He pulled away with an anguished, "I can't keep doing this," muffled into the pillow.

Dean stopped what he was doing. He didn't look at Sam though. Just picked up the tube of aloe and stood there. "It's messing me up, you don't know. It's like bliss one minute, and then torment. You're him for a second, a moment, and then he's gone, and I'm left with... what? This is going to kill me. Fuck, don't you see? Either kill me here and now and put me out of this misery or leave me the fuck alone. I. Can't." Sam pulled his arms and legs in and having said all he had the strength to say, he closed his eyes and let the tears soak into the pillow.

He felt the covers being pulled up, over and around him.

He heard the door to the room close.

And then he heard the Impala start up, and drive away.

**Chapter song: Temporary Bliss by The Cab**

**(Blame this song for this hot mess of a fic)**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: BookwormBaby2580 fixed it. Eric Kripke owns them. I just like to twist them.**

**Some dialogue from 10.02 - Reichenbach.**

**One more chapter after this folks!**

**Chapter 5 - What a Wicked Game to Play**

**_"The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I'm alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling."_**

**Richard Siken**

Cas found him like that. Probably an hour or so after Dean had left him. After Dean had cleaned him up, and rubbed aloe lotion into the welts on his wrists and ankles, and arnica into his tortured muscles. After Dean had tucked him in under the clean sheets, and left him. Cas found him.

Sam's choice was taken away from him. He had to tell Cas. And wasn't that just fucking perfect.

At first, Cas had thought that Sam was sick from the way he was huddled under the covers in the bed. Then he asked if Sam was hurt, if something had gone wrong on a hunt. Then…

"Wait. Did someone do this to you, Sam?"

Sam had not said a word, just nodded or shook his head in answer to Cas's questions. He hadn't been sure what to do, what to say.

Cas had been standing at the foot of the bed but he suddenly walked forward and roughly pulled the blankets off of Sam. He took in Sam's naked form, much thinner than it used to be, with various bruises and marks covering most of his flesh, the raw welts on his wrists and ankles, the motionless way that Sam was lying, as if he were terrified. He _was _terrified. He was going to lose Cas, he just knew he was. Even an ex-angel of the Lord would not be able to overlook what Sam had done, what Sam had allowed. What Sam had wanted. He would leave Sam here, and Sam would lose the only real family he had left.

The sobs built up in Sam until they broke out of him, wracking his aching body until he could barely breathe.

"Sam, you have to tell me what happened. Who did this to you? How—how did they get the drop on you? Do—were you—do we need to take you to the hospital, Sam. Are you damaged? ...Inside, I mean?"

Cas had always been more observant than Sam had given him credit for. He had obviously guessed what had happened to Sam. More or less. God, how could Sam tell him that it was Dean who had done it? That Sam had asked him to. That Sam was slowly dying without his brother and was taking whatever he could get just to make it through another week without Dean.

Cas sat down on the bed gently and put his hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Sam, you said you would try to let me help. Weeks ago, you said you would try. I've let it go, given you space, but you can't go on like this anymore. You have to tell me what's going on. Is it because Dean is—"

"A demon." It broke out of Sam like a punch.

"...What?"

"Dean is a demon, Cas." Sam's sobs had gentled a little.

"I don't... What?" Poor Cas looked completely incredulous. Sam didn't blame him.

Sam took as deep a breath as he could through the sobs and aching muscles. "Dean is a demon and I've been letting him do things to me for the past couple of months. Or more. I don't even know how long it's been, I stopped keeping track of dates after the second time it happened, I think. And I've done things to him, too."

"Things…" Cas said slowly,

"Se—sexual things. We've been f—having sex. Dean and I have been having sex. Cas. While you've been sick and still out there looking for my brother, his demon and I have been fu—fucking. I'm so sorry, Cas, I had no idea how to tell to you, or how to make sense of it or how to make it right. I want to die. Cas, I—" Sam couldn't go on. He couldn't look at Cas. He couldn't bear to see the disgust in Cas's bright blue eyes, eyes that had meant help and hope. He couldn't bare to see Cas start to hate him. So Sam turned around in the bed, with his back to Cas, and shook with his anguish until he thought he might shake apart.

Cas didn't say a word. But eventually Sam calmed down enough to realise that Cas was still there. Still right there, rubbing circles into his back and shushing him, saying things like, "It's okay Sam. It will be okay. You'll be fine Sam." Over and over again. When Sam had quieted again and was breathing more or less evenly, Cas got up, rummaged in Sam's duffle, went to the bathroom and turned on a tap briefly, then sat back down on the bed. When Sam worked up the courage to turn back around and look at Cas, he saw four aspirins in his one hand and the plastic cup from the bathroom in the other.

Cas held out the aspirin. "I don't know how many you should take."

Sam looked up quickly into Cas's eyes, saw nothing there but the usual care and consideration, and looked back down as Cas waved his hand a little. Sam took the tablets and the cup of water and swallowed down the lot.

He took a deep breath and lay back down. "Thanks," he said softly.

"Now," said Cas, just as softly. "Why don't you start from the beginning and just keep going until you end up right where we are now."

Cas didn't smile. But he didn't look angry, or hateful, or disgusted or any of the things Sam had been expecting. He just looked like Cas. The same as ever, if a bit more tired, a bit more weak. Sam wished he didn't have to unload all of this onto him. But there was no way he could avoid it now.

Cas reached out again and put his hand back on Sam's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'm not going anywhere, Sam. You said it. We're family. I probably know more about you and Dean than you realise—or would want, actually. There is nothing that you could say that would make me turn against you or care for you any less." Cas looked straight at Sam and gave a little nod. "I promise."

Sam almost started crying again, but he needed to do this. Needed to get this out. He was sure there would be more than enough tears coming his way in the near future.

So he told Cas. Everything.

Cas didn't leave.

Sam was still trying to wrap his head around that single most important fact. Cas didn't leave. While Sam had told Cas the whole story—trying not to break down, but failing miserably—Cas hadn't said a word. He had listened quietly and without judgment. When Sam was finished, feeling completely empty, he'd looked at Cas's expression with some surprise.

"Don't you have anything to say? Aren't you pissed? About me lying to you, about Dean being a demon? About..." He'd trailed off there.

The expression on Cas's face had remained infuriatingly calm. "I'm not angry, Sam. Okay, I am a little upset that you didn't tell me about Dean, but I understand why you didn't. And I am worried about Dean being a demon. I'll have to think about how we can deal with that," Cas looked thoughtful for a moment and then focused back on Sam. "Nothing I could say to you would punish you more than what you are saying to yourself. And it's _you_ who thinks you deserve some sort of punishment Sam, not me. Humans are inherently flawed, possibly you and Dean more than most." Sam was stung by this statement, but he couldn't deny it. "But you and Dean have also been through more than most. More has been expected of you than most people. And you both have more virtues than most people. You two were created, in a certain way, for a reason. And the plan went cosmically wrong when Mary was killed. You both had to deal with far more, far younger than you should've had to. And you found a way to do that."

Sam took in a deep shuddering breath. "That doesn't make any of this right."

"No, it doesn't. There is so much about this situation that is wrong, Sam, but your feelings for your brother, and how he may really feel about you, are perhaps the most insignificant concerns right now."

Sam was sitting cross-legged on the bed now and, for all his size, he looked very small. He looked down at his lap, where his fingers had been fidgeting throughout his telling Cas his story. What Cas was saying did not necessarily make him feel any better, but he was starting to feel calmer.

"Sam. We are not living normal lives. And there was never a chance that any of us were going to come out of this life unscathed. Dean has already spent 40 years in hell. You've spent several lifetimes there and have lived here without a soul. I let primordial monsters out of Purgatory and loose on the world and tried to become God. Now I'm an angel with fading grace and Dean is a demon. I have to say, Sam, incest might just be the most normal thing about this family."

Sam cringed at the dreaded word, but he snuck a peek at Cas and Cas was as supremely unperturbed as ever.

"The most important thing we need to do right now is to get Dean back. The two of you can deal with everything else later, but we need to find a way to bring him back. You know that you and Dean are soulmates." Sam had actually forgotten about that, it not being something they'd ever talked about after the fiasco that visiting their shared heaven had been. "The way that the two of you have been emotionally using and manipulating each other—"

"I have not been... doing that." Sam protested, rather weakly.

Cas looked at him steadily. "You know you have. You know that you've been trying to pull out any bit of Dean you could during your... encounters. In any way you could. And such emotional abuse between soulmates ultimately damages the souls in question, Sam. We don't even know what shape Dean's soul is in right now, so he is particularly vulnerable."

Sam mumbled, sulkily, "He doesn't seem vulnerable. He seems like an ass."

Cas sighed. "Yes, well. Neither of you can continue in this fashion or one or both of you _will_ break. We need to get Dean back one way or another. And in order to do that, you need to set aside your guilt—" Sam looked up, about to say something, "— for now," Cas clarified holding up his hand, "allow yourself a little time to heal, and then help me figure out a way to do this. You and Dean will figure everything else out afterward. You always do."

Sam wasn't so sure that they'd be able to this time. Assuming they _could _save Dean. But he didn't have enough strength to argue with Cas, who was making sense. They needed to try to get Dean back. Sam thought of all his concerns, about permanently losing Dean in an attempt to save him. But he didn't have to do this alone now. He'd bring it up with Cas, later. At the Bunker. Sam's body felt like lead and he could barely keep his eyes open, let alone his body upright. He was physically and emotionally wrung out. He lay back down in the bed, mumbling as he closed his eyes, "'kay, Cas. We'll figure it out. Just gonna close my eyes for a second, and then we'll get Dean back..."

Cas climbed onto the bed, shoes, trenchcoat and all, and sat up against the headboard. He leaned over to pull the covers over Sam's wide shoulders. Sam woke up just enough to murmur, "Stay?"

"Yes," Cas said simply. As if he were going anywhere. As if he would leave Sam here like this.

Cas ended up falling asleep like that, mostly sitting up with one hand on Sam's back.

They eventually made it back to the Bunker. Neither Sam nor Cas was in the best shape, but they rested as much as they could, between doing research and making plans. They couldn't find anything on curing a demon who wasn't possessing someone but was a man who had been turned _into_ a demon, but Cas didn't think that would be a problem.

"The purpose of Father Thompson's exorcism was to turn a demon _human_ again, not to bring back the person who the demon was possessing. So the cure should be especially efficacious on Dean. My main concern is the Mark of Cain, which is a potent symbol of evil. I do not think that blood purification through confession will be enough. However, I think I've figured out a way to make the blood exceptionally powerful. Kind of... extra-strength purification."

In the end, it involved Sam talking a priest into blessing a dozen or so crates of type O. The rather terrified priest didn't ask how Sam had got the blood or what he was going to use it for, which was just as well, and once he was done, he didn't waste any time getting the hell away from Sam. Poor guy probably fled the state of Kansas.

So they had super-purified holy blood, and Cas found a ritual to consecrate the devil's trap in the Bunker dungeon with holy water. Cas took care of that part. Once the blood was in the dungeon, the devil's trap was ready, and they had all the restraints, needles, syringes, holy water and any other defensive weapons they could think of, there was only one other thing that they needed.

"You need to phone him, Sam." Cas said this very gently, but firmly.

This was the part of the plan that Sam hated. Dean had left very few texts since the night at Lovewell. He had clearly been willing to go on as before, although it had taken him a little longer than usual to contact Sam again. But eventually, he'd texted Sam a place and a time, as usual. But Sam had ignored it. After a few hours Dean had sent "where are you?" and Sam hadn't bothered to answer that either. Dean had tried a few more times, with Sam ignoring each text, until a couple of days ago all he had received was a question mark. And now Sam had to contact Dean and arrange to meet up. Both he and Cas knew what that would mean. They had tried to think of another way, but Dean would be suspicious now that Sam had been avoiding him. And Sam knew that Dean had been following him, keeping tabs on him. They weren't sure what Dean had seen or what he knew, even though they'd taken all the precautions they could think of.

Neither Cas nor Sam said the words, but they both knew what was going to have to happen.

The only way to get Dean into a position where Sam could capture him, was for Sam to have sex with him.

It still took Sam a couple of days to work up to it. In keeping with the pattern—and because Sam couldn't face actually phoning him—Sam sent a text.

All it said was:

**Cawker City**

**Waconda Lake Lodge**

**Hopewell Room**

**2 hrs**

Sam was assuming that Dean was within at least two hour's drive of Lebanon. That had been his M.O. for the last few months after all. He put the phone down, determined not to watch the screen, waiting for a reply, but it turned out that he didn't have to wait at all. The phone pinged the moment he'd set it down. In reply Dean had sent a thumbs-up emoji.

Sam had arrived at the lodge about thirty minutes before, and he didn't have that many physical preparations to make. The plan was to slip the angel cuffs on Dean. Using any means necessary. So Sam had those in his back pocket. He also had a fairly large bottle of Johnnie Walker, which he was taking regular swigs from. He wouldn't let himself get drunk. But he could do with the liquid courage. And any numbing factor the alcohol might provide. Sam sat down on the bed, took another swig, and waited.

The rumble of the Impala's engine made its way into Sam's consciousness two and a half hours later. Sam had expected that Dean would make him wait after all the unanswered texts. The bottle of whisky was about a third down, so Sam was feeling pretty good but still capable of whatever he might need to be able to do.

The car pulled up to the row of rooms, and parked right in front of the Hopewell room. The name had something to do with an old church in the area, but Sam had just thought that they could use any extra hope they could get and had gone with it. Dean sat in the car for a little while. Sam decided he wasn't going to go look to see what he was doing, or meet him at the door even. He'd just stay right where he was and wait for Dean.

Eventually he heard the car door open and close, heard Dean step up onto the wooden porch running the length of the row of rooms, and then he heard the door knob twist. When Sam heard the door close behind Dean, he finally looked up. Dean was standing at the door, hand still on the knob. As they'd expected he looked suspicious. Sam could tell that Dean was trying to suss out any salt, holy water, devil's traps or angels that might be in or near the room. It was for this very reason that they'd left everything but the cuffs at the Bunker. Well, and the demon blade. As Sam had said before, he wasn't an idiot. Although he was rather skeptical about that statement himself, now. Sam had even managed to convince Cas that he had to stay well away from the Lodge. Cas had insisted that he remain near enough to be able to get to Sam quickly if necessary. He was a couple of miles down the road, parked at a gas station in an old Ford truck. Neither of them had mentioned the obvious: that 'quickly' would probably not be nearly quick enough if Dean caught on to their plan before he was restrained.

"Heya, Sammy." Dean spoke hesitantly.

"Hi Dean." Sam had decided to go with showing how he really felt. He didn't have the energy or the will to pretend to be anything other than exhausted, unsure and sad. And for all that, he still wanted Dean. So. Not much pretense necessary in any case.

"Thought you'd chickened out on me," Dean said, taking a careful step into the room.

Sam remained where he was, sitting on the bed hunched over the bottle of whisky. He shrugged. "I needed some time. I'm... I can't pretend to be okay with any of this, you know? I never wanted to fall in love with my brother. And you're not even him, you're little more than a monster, so." Sam gave a little shrug. "I dream of you, him. Whatever. Almost every night now. It's all such an epic fuck-up. And I still can't seem to stay away. As fucked up as it is, being with you is the only thing that's kept me going."

Dean took another step toward, Sam. "Sam," he said softly, sounding real. Sounding like Dean. "I feel—"

"No." Sam interrupted him quickly. "I don't want to know how you feel. I don't believe you _do_ feel. Anything you're going to say to me right now is nothing that I can believe."

Dean nodded slowly. "Fair enough."

"So right now, I just need to feel. Him. You. Whatever I can get. I don't want to talk. Can you at least do that for me?"

"Sure, Sam." Dean seemed more confident, convinced that he knew now what this meeting was about. Sam was just a needy little bitch. _Well_, Sam thought. _He's not wrong_. Dean was standing directly in front of Sam now. He reached out and pushed Sam's hair off his face.

"What do you need, little brother?" He said it so gently. Every time Sam thought that his heart couldn't possibly break any more, this demon said or did something to show him just how wrong he was.

Sam closed his eyes. He was so tired of all of this. He leaned into Dean, letting his forehead fall against Dean's stomach. If he stayed just like this, eyes closed, touching Dean, close enough to smell him, he could pretend...

Dean had both hands in Sam's hair now. _Good_. He was slowly combing his fingers through the strands and Sam honestly thought he would be happy to spend the rest of his life just like this. Not having to face any of what he had to do next. Just him and Dean, quietly touching, fuck the rest of the world. But he knew he had to put an end to this. Sam had abandoned his brother once before. He'd be damned if he'd do it again. He knew that if Dean had a choice, he'd rather be dead than a demon. And if that was how things ended up, with Dean dead? Sam had long ago decided what he'd do.

_Time to get this show on the road_, he thought, and he nuzzled into Dean's stomach, taking in as much of his scent as he could. Whisky and Old Spice (all Dean) and something sharp and unfamiliar. Dean sighed.

Sam slowly lifted Dean's shirt so that he could press his face into his naked skin. He pressed small kisses into Dean's flesh, running his hands along his brother's waist, dipping his fingers into the waistband of his jeans. He could feel Dean getting hard, and he swallowed. Sam really did not want to do this. And Sam wanted to do this so badly.

Gently sucking a bruise into Dean's skin, Sam started to undo the button and zipper of his jeans. God he could smell him already. Sam looked down briefly and saw the wet spot on his brother's underwear. Dean was already so into this, Sam smiled a little. This was going to work. He looked up at Dean, who was watching him with an expression on his face that Sam didn't want to see. One he'd seen there before, one that confused and hurt him.

"This what you want, Sam?" Dean said it gently, with a miniscule thrust of his hips. None of the swagger that the demon usually displayed. Sam nodded, and slid off the bed onto his knees, pulling Dean's jeans and underwear down just enough that his cock was free for Sam to wrap his mouth around.

"Fuck, Sam." Dean groaned. Sam took his time, using his hands and his mouth. Running his tongue up and down the length of his brother's cock, then wrapping his lips around it, taking it as deep as he could. He hollowed out his cheeks and sucked his way back up the shaft, then pushed into the slit a little with his tongue, before he licked his way along the underside, down to Dean's balls, spending a little time there, before starting the cycle up again. Dean seemed happy to go slow at first, humming his approval with every lick of Sam's tongue, groaning obscenely when Sam sucked on his balls, grunting softly when Sam swallowed around his cock. Dean had started off with his fingers loosely resting in Sam's hair but it didn't take too long before he was clutching tightly at fistfulls of the strands—god, Sam loved that—trying not to thrust too roughly into Sam's mouth. Sam was getting lost in the feel of his brother, slick and hard in his mouth, the taste of him thick on his tongue. He wanted more, more of this, more of Dean. _I want my brother back_.

Sam felt Dean's hands knotted in his hair, starting to pull Sam's mouth a little harder onto his cock, hips thrusting a little more roughly. Sam slipped his hand into his pocket just as Dean moaned, "that's it, just... suck me Sam, take it, fuck," and before Dean could complete one more thrust, Sam had the angel cuffs locked around Dean's right wrist.

"What the fuck—?" But Dean didn't have a chance to finish. Sam had twisted around—in a move Dean had taught him when he was twelve, and that Sam had perfected by the time he was thirteen—and pulled Dean over his shoulder, before Dean could clear his sex-addled mind. In another second, he had Dean on the floor on his stomach, both hands behind his back, cuff closed around his left wrist, as he dug his knee into Dean's lower back to keep him down.

Dean struggled briefly, and then lay limp. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Sam?" He pulled against the cuffs.

"Angel cuffs, you fucker. You ain't getting out of them." Sam pressed the demon blade into Dean's back, a feeling of deja vu washing over him. "And this is my extra insurance. We're going home, Dean."

"I told you to let me go."

As if either of them had ever been able to do that.

"You know I can't do that. Dean, we know how to cure demons. You remember that?"

"Did you ever stop to think that if I wanted to be cured, I wouldn't have bailed?" Dean might have been on the ground with his hands cuffed behind his back, but the smug demon was back in full force.

"It doesn't matter." There was no way Sam would back down. "Whatever's happened, we'll fix it."

Sam saw Dean grin. "Will we, Sam? You think that's how this is going to end? Because I have an idea that this little rescue mission? Is going to end with me ripping your throat out... with my teeth. I'm giving you a chance, Sam. You should take it."

An unexpected shiver went down Sam's spine. A little twisted lust, a lot of very real fear. He knew that Dean meant every word.

"I'm gonna have to pass," Sam said as he pulled Dean to his feet. Dean gave a dark chuckle. That sound had haunted Sam's dreams.

After manhandling Dean into the backseat of the Impala and securing the cuffs to the door handle, Sam had climbed into the driver's seat and pulled away from the lodge. The short drive back to the Bunker was probably the most awkward journey he'd ever shared with his brother.

At first neither of them said anything, but the silence got to Sam.

"This thing is filthy."

"It's just a car, Sam," Dean said, looking out the window, barely paying attention.

"It's just a… car," Sam repeated softly to himself. "Wow. You really have gone dark."

Dean slowly turned his head to focus on Sam's eyes, watching him in the rearview mirror. "You have no idea. And what I'm gonna do to you, Sammy... Well." Dean licked his lips, before looking back out the window.

Sam shivered again.

Sam had called Cas on the way, and he was waiting to help get Dean into the Bunker and safely locked inside the dungeon. Dean had barely glanced at Cas, just given the angel a quick look up and down with a sneer on his face.

All Cas had said was, "Hello, Dean."

And they'd begun the cure. Sam had insisted that he be the one to administer all the injections. He and Cas would say the exorcism ritual together at regular intervals. Otherwise, Cas stood back, a silent but ever present support that Sam was acutely aware of and sincerely grateful for. Because Sam had started to think that the blood cure might be more painful for him than it was for Dean. At one point though, Cas had to leave to help Hannah with a rogue angel. Sam didn't want to be left alone with this monster that was and wasn't his brother, but he knew that Cas felt a huge responsibility for what had happened to the angels and an obligation to help where he could. He wouldn't stop Cas.

And as if inflicting vicious pain on his brother wasn't bad enough, the things that Dean said to Sam while he was strapped in that chair would forever be etched in Sam's brain. Did Dean really blame him for everything? For their mom's death? For Dean's difficult life, never being able to do anything because of the little brother constantly hanging around his neck? Sam kept telling himself it wasn't really Dean, but it was hard because deep down? Sam had always believed most of what Dean was saying anyway.

Eventually Dean blacked out, and Sam was scared that they'd gone too far too fast, that they'd lost him. He'd slapped Dean hard, yelling, "Hey! Dean, you okay? Dean! Come back to me! You have to fight!"

Dean had come to and said groggily, "What the hell for..?"

Sam couldn't believe it. "No!" He'd shouted the word right into Dean's face. "No, you don't. You don't get to quit. We don't get to quit in this family! This family is all we have ever had!"

Dean shrugged, utterly uncaring. "Well, then, we got nothin'."

And that had made Sam so angry and so scared that he'd jabbed the next syringe viciously into Dean's arm. "This? Is me fighting for our 'nothing'. You're welcome."

And he threw the syringe down and walked out of the dungeon.

Which was when Dean had escaped. This was good news because it proved that the cure was working. The bad news was that Sam ended up in what felt like an alternate reality, playing an adult game of tag with his hammer wielding big brother. The Bunker was on lockdown, but Sam wasn't sure that he had the strength to fight Dean, even with the demon knife, which he was once again clinging to.

Stalking Dean through the corridors of the Bunker, Sam had thought he'd caught a glimpse of him. Staying close to the walls, Sam had looked one way down a hall, and finding it clear, turned around. Just in time to duck the hammer Dean had swung at his head. _Of all the weapons in this place he chose a hammer?!_

Feeling that his reactions were sluggish, Sam had managed to get the demon knife to Dean's neck, and pushed the blade against his throat. Another flash of deja vu.

And Dean smiled. And Sam just—Sam was ready to give up. He couldn't do this. He was holding a knife against his brother's throat, the same brother who had just swung at his head with a very solid hammer, and he was getting hard. What the fuck was wrong with him? As Dean looked into his eyes and said, "Look at you. Do it. It's all you," Sam wasn't sure he would be able to resist the very real urge to slam his mouth against his brother's. Sam was pretty much convinced that he didn't deserve to live anyway. And he knew that he couldn't kill Dean. So giving up was looking like the only option. He'd watched as Dean licked his lips, and then Sam had closed his eyes and lowered the knife. He didn't see Dean's eyes go black, or his arm lift, ready to strike with the hammer.

**Chapter song: Wicked Game (feat. Annaca) by Ursine Vulpine**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Last chapter folks! Thank you for sticking with this.**

**One final thank you to BookwormBaby2580 for fixing my words. And for making an awesome playlist for this fic which you can find the link to on my profile. It includes all the chapter songs plus more!**

**As always the boys belong to Kripke.**

**This chapter includes some dialogue from 10.03 Soul Survivor.**

**Chapter 6 – You Make Me Perfect**

**"****_You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one safe place where you could love him."_**

**Richard Siken**

"You gave up."

Cas didn't sound angry or even upset. He sounded sad.

Sam didn't have any answer for him. He just sat in the kitchen, holding the cup of (truly terrible) coffee Cas had made him, after they had gotten Dean back into the dungeon and made sure that there was no way that he could escape again.

Sam had administered the final dose of purified blood, and he and Cas had said the exorcism ritual together for the final time, Dean sneering at them throughout. Sam thought that maybe he had seen a flicker of fear pass over the demon's eyes as he had pushed the needle into his brother's flesh for the last time. But he also thought that was probably wishful thinking.

They watched Dean for a few moments in silence, hope sinking as it appeared that nothing would happen. Then suddenly, Dean started convulsing. It was a full on foaming-at-the mouth seizure, but the foam was black and Dean's eyes had rolled so far back in his head that only the whites could be seen. It was a horrifying contrast, and Sam had stood watching what he thought was his greatest fear come true, frozen to the spot.

Cas had remained calm, ensuring that Dean was secure in the chair, that he couldn't hurt himself seriously, and had then stood back and put his hand on Sam's shoulder. They had stood there together like that, watching Dean shudder and spasm, jaw clenched shut, the only sounds escaping him grunts and moans. Sam had forced himself to keep his eyes open, to watch the consequences of what he had done to his brother.

Eventually, the convulsions had become less violent, calming to only the occasional shudder. And finally Dean was still, tied to the chair, head slumped over, black slime covering the front of his shirt. Sam had knelt in front of him, sure that Dean was dead. But when he'd put his fingers to Dean's neck, the pulse, while weak, had been steady. Dean's breaths were slow but deep. He was alive, and Sam fell back onto the floor in relief. Cas had handed Sam a hand towel and Sam had wiped Dean's mouth, and tried to clean up as much of the mess on his shirt as he could.

"What do we do now," he'd asked as he stood back up.

Cas had shrugged. "We wait. Come, Sam."

After making sure the dungeon was locked and secure, Cas had led Sam to the kitchen where he had made him coffee and a cheese sandwich. Sam couldn't eat, but he'd clutched at the warmth of the coffee mug, and stared glassy-eyed at the table in front of him as Cas gently remonstrated with him.

Finally Sam has said, "I was just so tired, Cas. And he was _so_ angry and full of hate."

Sam hadn't seen what Dean had almost done to him, but it wasn't hard to guess. When he'd closed his eyes and lowered his weapon he had fully expected to die. And he'd been okay with that. Sam had only opened his eyes again when he'd heard a familiar hum of power and strangled grunting coming from Dean. He'd opened his eyes to see one pair of all black eyes glaring at him and one pair of glowing blue eyes looking at him sadly.

"Well." Cas said. "I'm glad I got back in time, and with enough power to be useful."

"Yeah, how did that happen?" Sam asked disinterestedly, taking a sip of the hot coffee.

"I'll tell you sometime. Suffice to say, it involved Crowley and stolen grace. And there's a female outside in the car."

"Great," Sam said with a sigh, not even caring.

They sat in silence for a long while, both too tired to speak and neither having much to say anyway. And they were both a little scared to ask the question that was on both of their minds.

Finally, Sam couldn't hold it in any longer. He needed to know.

"How long, do you think?"

Cas didn't need to ask Sam what he was talking about. It was obvious they were both focussed on only one thing at the moment.

"I honestly don't know, Sam."

"Well," Sam said draining the dregs of the now cold liquid in his mug, and getting up from the table. The same table that he'd spilled coffee all over the moment this whole nightmare had started. "I'm going to check on him."

Cas followed Sam to the dungeon and watched him unlock the door. Dean was still tied to the chair, slumped over and looking deathly pale. Sam stood still for a moment looking at his brother, so afraid that if he got closer he would see that Dean wasn't breathing. But he didn't wait too long before taking a deep breath and getting one of the small bottles of holy water they had on the table where they had laid out all the equipment for the cure.

Sam unscrewed the lid from the bottle, and hesitantly and without much hope, splashed the liquid onto Dean's face.

There was no smoke, no sizzling.

Sam tossed another splash at Dean.

Dean groaned. Sam held his breath.

With another groan, Dean's eyes fluttered open. Sam's heart sank when he saw his brother's eyes were solid black. He heard a devastated sound come from Cas. But then, as Dean blinked repeatedly, the blackness dissipated, clearing away until all that was left was Dean's familiar green eyes looking from Sam to Cas with confusion.

Sam's knees nearly buckled from the relief he felt when Dean said, "You look worried, fellas."

Cas and Sam had given Dean the short version of what had happened to him. Dean hadn't wanted to believe them, but the evidence of the demon cure was all around him, along with the state of his goo-covered shirt, and that was difficult to argue with. Eventually, Sam had walked Dean to his bedroom and hovered a little, not sure what to say or do, and so fucking relieved but also not looking forward to having a real conversation with Dean. He didn't know how much he remembered and was pretty sure he didn't want to know. So instead of saying anything, he hovered.

"I'm good, Sam," Dean said tiredly. "You don't have to babysit me. I'm going to have a shower to wash all this gross off of me, and then I'm going to sleep. For, like, a year."

Sam gave a little smile but still looked unconvinced.

"I'm not going anywhere, kiddo." Sam looked up quickly at the use of this now loaded word, but still, all he saw was his brother. Looking bone weary. Dean continued, "Hey, do you think you could get me some food? I dunno what all I was doing the last couple of months, but it feels like I sure as hell was not eating enough. I'm starving, man."

"Sure," Sam said quickly, happy to have something to do that didn't require any thought from him. "Sure, we could all do with some food. Haven't done a grocery run in a while…" he trailed off. "I'll go out and get burgers or something. Be about thirty minutes."

Dean gave Sam a wave as he walked off towards the showers. Sam stood staring in the direction his brother had gone. After a few moments, he shook himself and walked out of the room.

Cas was busy in the library, obviously waiting for Sam.

"How's he doing?" he asked, putting down a book he'd been paging through.

Sam was trying to remember where he'd left the keys to the Impala, so he answered a little distractedly, "He's uh… He's still a little out of it, but better, I think. I mean, I think this whole thing, the blood cure, and the—all of it, really wrecked him, you know?" Sam hoped Cas didn't want to go into the 'all of it' right now. So he kept on talking hurriedly, "On the plus side, he's hungry again, so I'm just going to go pick him up a big ol' bag of crap food and stuff it in his face myself. You mind keeping an eye?"

He found the keys on the bookshelf and started toward the stairs.

"Of course. Sam, wait." Cas could see that Sam didn't want to talk but he needed to say this. Sam paused.

"You realize one problem is solved, but one still remains. Dean is no longer a demon, that's true. But the Mark of Cain… that, he still has. And sooner or later, that's going to be an issue."

Sam had actually managed to forget about that. With everything else, that had just not been high on his list of priorities. He sighed. "You know what, Cas? I'm beat, man. One battle at a time, you know? So I'm just gonna go grab my brother some cholesterol. And then, I'm gonna get drunk. And you are more than welcome to join me. But no serious talk, at least for a few days. Okay?"

Cas looked at Sam seriously, but nodded his assent. Sam nodded back and headed up the stairs and out of the Bunker.

Cas took advantage of Sam's absence to check on Dean himself. The man was his best friend, his brother, and although they had brought him back, Cas wasn't sure what sort of damage had been done to Dean. Or to his soul.

He found Dean sitting on his bed, going through the old photographs Cas knew he kept in a box underneath it. He knocked on the open door, and Dean turned around and nodded at him.

"You look terrible," Cas told him. He did. He was pale, he had clearly lost weight. Cas had to wonder what other marks were on his body, if it was peppered all over with bruises like Sam's was.

Dean gave a small laugh. "Tell it like it is, Cas." He looked at his friend with genuine affection. "It's really good to see you man." Dean looked down again, at a photo of a teenaged Sam he was still holding in his hand. "Thanks," he said quietly. "For stepping in when you did."

Cas nodded his head.

"What did Sam say? Does he want a divorce?" Dean tried to grin, tried to pass it off as a joke, but Cas could see that he was really worried.

_These two_, Cas thought to himself in exasperation. "I'm sure Sam knows that whatever you said or what you did, it wasn't really you. It certainly wasn't all you."

"I tried to kill him, Cas." Dean shook his head as if to say he could never be forgiven for that. Cas knew that that was how Dean would feel. He would never forgive himself. Not ever.

Cas took a deep breath. "Dean. You two have been through so much. Look, you're brothers. It'd take a lot more than trying to kill Sam with a hammer to make him want to walk away."

Dean gave another small laugh. "You realize how screwed up our lives are that that even makes sense?"

"Dean."

Dean looked at Cas, the angel's expression serious. He looked away. "Yeah?" he answered quietly.

"How much do you remember?" Cas needed to know. Dean and his brother needed to face this thing between them, and Cas was sure that Sam would avoid confrontation as long as he could. Cas needed to know what Dean knew and how it had affected him.

Dean slumped a little, looking miserable and scared. And very small. "I… I remember everything, Cas. I remember every minute of every screwed up thing I did." He looked up. "What do you know? Do you know what I—did? To Sam?"

Cas sat down on the bed next to Dean. "I know what you _and _Sam did. To each other."

When Sam got back to the Bunker with a double cheeseburger and some raspberry pie for Dean, plain burgers for Cas and himself, and a dozen beers (which Sam meant to have most of himself before the night was over), Dean was quiet. Sam figured he was tired, and not a little confused, but he ate the food eagerly and thanked Sam. Something about the way Dean looked at him made Sam feel a little uneasy, but he decided that was just exhaustion and relief. Things would surely be a little weird for a while. He would need to talk about the last few months with Dean. Eventually. But he was going to put that off for as long as he possibly could. Sam decided that Dean could make the first move when it came to that particular conversation. He didn't even know what his brother remembered. Sam expected things would be a bit awkward and he was fine with that. Awkward was about the best he could hope for, and things would probably get worse before they got better.

What Sam did not expect was for his brother to crawl into his bed that night, long after they'd both said goodnight and hugged—a long, tight hug—and gone to their separate rooms. Sam had not expected Dean to curl around him from behind, and to fall asleep there, his breath steady on Sam's neck.

Neither of them said a word, and when Sam woke up the next morning, Dean was already up and making breakfast. And pretending nothing had happened. Typical.

They _both _pretended that nothing had happened. Sam wasn't eager to start a conversation that would inevitably end up somewhere he was terrified to go. He wasn't sure what Dean was thinking and there was no way he was going to push.

Cas had suggested that Dean take some time before getting back to hunting. Give himself time to heal. Sam knew that Cas had meant for that to apply to Sam as well. After a few days, probably reassuring himself that Dean really was okay and that he and Sam weren't going to seriously hurt each other after some revelation, Cas had taken a few days to look into some angel trouble Hannah had phoned him about. If the significant look Cas had given him as he had said goodbye was anything to go by, Cas meant for Sam to use this time to come clean with Dean; for them to work through… whatever it was they had to work through.

They spent their time watching all of Dean's favorites: Three Stooges, Godzilla, a few Star Treks (which made Sam smile). Sam even sat through Porky's II. Well, to tell the truth, Sam watched Dean watch Porky's II.

Dean ate all the junk food Sam could get and Sam mostly joined him, although he still wasn't eating like he should. Sam found it difficult to eat when his stomach was still tied up in knots. Sam told Dean about the few hunts he had been on while Dean was 'away,' always talking around the fact that Dean was a demon at the time. Dean told Sam a few funny stories of what he'd done with Crowley before he'd left the bastard. He also avoided the demon thing.

Sam thought that maybe they could just keep on like that indefinitely. It was mostly comfortable, although at times there was obvious avoidance of certain things, and they weren't as comfortable in each other's personal space as they always had been in the past. A consequence of growing up in each other's back pockets, needing to fight shoulder to shoulder, having to dig bullets out of each other's flesh, and stitch each other up when things had gone wrong, was that—while Sam and Dean had never been touchy-feely—they'd never been uncomfortable with each other's bodies either. Sam thought he felt discomfort between them now. But that was fine, Sam could live with that. Dean was safe and he was whole and Sam was so thankful. He didn't want to mess things up. Maybe Dean honestly didn't remember any of… it.

But it was just the two of them in the Bunker, no real distractions and Dean was a stubborn son-of-a-bitch with an ingrained 'look after Sammy' complex. In the end, Dean cornered Sam and Sam couldn't hide any longer.

They'd been cooking together, of all things. Sam had gone out a few days before to stock up on everything, the kitchen being empty. And Dean had insisted on making bacon pancakes. Sam had gagged a little at the thought, but it turned out that Sam really liked bacon pancakes. While Dean had been flipping the last of the batch, Sam had made a pot of coffee and had put plates and cutlery on the table, along with a big bottle of syrup. Sam knew his brother. Finally Dean had set the plate of pancakes down and they'd dug in, talking about everything and nothing, and Sam hadn't felt so happy in a long time.

Dean had mopped up the dregs of syrup on his plate with his last forkful of pancake and made a satisfied groan as he put it in his mouth. When he'd swallowed, washing it down with the last of the coffee in his mug, he'd sat back and looked at Sam, who had finished his own pancakes a little while ago and had just been watching his brother with a soft smile on his face.

Dean sighed. "We have to talk about it, Sam."

Sam was still in a blissful haze of pancakes and happy-brother. He was hardly listening. "What?"

"I remember, Sam. All of it. I know what I did. And as much as I hate it, we need to talk about it."

Sam had felt all the color drain from his face. _No no no no no nonono_…

"I—" He couldn't deny it. He couldn't shrug it off. He couldn't say it didn't matter. What the fuck was he supposed to say?

"I can't…" Sam didn't think he could do this. He started to panic, breath coming short and sharp. "I don't know—Dean, I…"

Dean had wasted no time in standing up and moving to his brother's side of the table. He'd sat down next to Sam and put his hand on his back, started rubbing circles there.

"Hey. Sammy, hey. Calm down. Jesus, calm down, Sam."

Sam was hyperventilating. He was going to pass out, he was sure he was. _Please let me pass out._

"Sammy. Look at me."

Sam shook his head.

Dean got up and pushed his chair away giving him space to kneel down and turn Sam's chair so that Sam had no choice but to look right at him. Sam closed his eyes, still breathing too hard, too fast.

"Sam, open your eyes. Sammy. You gotta look at me, baby boy."

Well.

Sam opened his eyes and looked at his brother. All he saw on Dean's face was love and concern. It almost broke him.

"Deep breath in, Sam." Dean took a deep breath, encouraging Sam to breathe with him. "And out…" Long slow breath out. Sam tried to copy Dean. After a few minutes of breathing together, Sam had calmed down to the point where passing out was no longer a danger.

Dean sighed in relief. "Christ kid, don't scare me like that. What the hell, Sam?"

"How can you stand to be around me?" Sam asked quietly. "If you remember everything, how can you even look at me?"

And Dean was looking. He was looking at Sam intently, with that expression that Sam had caught glimpses of before, as if Sam was the most precious thing in the world to Dean. And with some confusion.

"How… Sam, how could I hate you for what _I did to you_?"

"What?"

"I started it, Sam. I phoned you. I manipulated you into letting me… do those things. You should be the one disgusted by me. But you're not. You saved me, and you've stayed with me. And I honestly don't get it, Sam. I don't understand why you haven't killed me already, or at the very least, left my sorry ass and got the hell away from me."

Sam looked at Dean in bewilderment. "You didn't force me to do anything, Dean. I let you—I let you." Hell, if they were going to be honest about this… "I… wanted it." Sam looked away.

Dean didn't say anything, and eventually Sam had to look at him, just so he knew if he needed to run…

Dean looked… Stunned.

"You… did?"

Sam sighed. "I figured from everything you—the demon—said, that you knew my big dirty secret. I hero-worshipped you, Dean. You were everything to me when I was a kid. You looked after me, fed me, played with me, teased me, fought with me, and the only times you ever stood up to dad, it was on account of me. You were everything to me," Sam repeated. "And somewhere along the way that was twisted into… more."

Dean had listened in silence while Sam spoke, still watching him with an intensity that made Sam's mouth go dry. He licked his lips,

"I've been more or less in love you with since… Well I think I finally figured it out when I was fourteen and all my wet dreams featured you in one way or another." Dean took a sharp breath. "It was never an issue. Really. I would never have told you. I mean we've been working together for like, ten years now, and it was never a problem. It didn't interfere with us, did it? And you never guessed, or… at least I thought you never had..." Sam trailed off there.

Dean had still not said anything. Sam didn't really blame him. What was there to say when your little brother turned out to be a twisted pervert?

"Sam." It came out like a sigh. Sam looked at his brother, and there was a gentleness in his face that Sam didn't think he'd seen there before. Sam couldn't have known that it was the same expression that had been on Dean's face when he'd found Sam alive after he'd made the crossroads deal. Sam hadn't had a chance to see Dean's face before his brother was hugging him, back then.

"I… I didn't know. Not exactly. I mean, I saw the way you looked at me sometimes, especially when you were a teen, all legs and no coordination. But I thought I was just seeing things that I was wishing for, not things that were real."

"Huh?" Sam knew he hadn't heard that right.

"Seems like somehow we were both twisted into the same knot, Sam. You've always been my everything, kiddo. You _know_ that."

Sam was starting to get suspicious. This couldn't be really happening. Maybe… maybe the cure hadn't worked after all.

Dean must have seen something of what Sam was thinking because he said, "this is really me here, Sam. Want to get the holy water? Or, wait…" Dean was still on his knees in front of where Sam was sitting, but he got up and pulled Sam with him, dragging him to Sam's bedroom, where Dean reached under Sam's pillow and pulled out the demon knife. He handed it to Sam.

"Cut me."

Even though his traitorous mouth watered, Sam shook his head.

"Sam, cut me. Test me."

"No," Sam said. He could never cut Dean. Not ever again.

Understanding dawned in Dean's eyes, and Sam hated that. Hated that he knew why Sam was refusing.

Without another word, Dean drew the sigil-inscribed blade across his palm, painting a line of blood along his hand. But there was no smoke, no sparks. Dean's skin reacted to the blade as if it were just any other knife. Which it was, for Dean's very human flesh.

Sam's knees gave in, just a little, and he kind of fell onto his bed.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. I don't—what does this mean? I don't know what this means."

Dean sat down next to Sam.

"I spoke to Cas." Sam looked surprised. "That day, the day I… woke up? When you went to get me food." Dean smiled a small smile, remembering how Sam had fussed over him. "Cas came to check on me. He told me about the soul thing. About how we could really have damaged each other. Like, we could have mangled our souls beyond repair with how we were hurting each other."

Sam looked down at the floor.

"I'm so sorry, Sam. I need you to know that I didn't know that. I didn't know I was putting your soul in jeopardy."

"S'okay. You couldn't control—"

"No, Sam." Dean spoke sharply. "You don't understand. I knew who I was, and I knew what I was doing. I mean, not about the soul thing, but I was aware of the rest of it. I need you to understand this. I couldn't always control the impulses, what I—_he_—decided to do. But I tried. I tried to stop him from hurting you Sam. That first meeting? He'd been planning that for days before I couldn't hold him back any longer. That was when he phoned you. That first time, I tried to rein him in, but…"

"But what?" Sam's voice sounded very small.

"But I wanted it, Sam. God help me, I did want you. I tried to stop him from being too rough, I never wanted it to be that vicious, but eventually I couldn't fight him anymore. And… And that photo, Sam. Jesus, I feel sick to the stomach just thinking about it."

"You and me both," Sam said.

"When I realized that I wouldn't be able to keep us away from you, I followed you to that wendigo hunt. I did everything that I could think of to hold him in, keep him away so that I could let you get back at me. If that was what you needed."

Sam gaped at Dean. "That was you? Or at least mostly you? That night when I did those things to you?

Dean nodded.

"It was some sort of penance? You let me—Christ Dean, the things I did."

Dean's face flushed a little. "I didn't hate it Sam," he said softly.

"What?!"

"Again, not how I ever pictured us, but." Sam's mind had stuttered to a halt at the idea of Dean 'picturing' them together. "I didn't mind being marked by you, Sam. I don't mind it. In fact… I kind of like the idea."

San didn't know what to say to that.

"But I couldn't always hold him back. There were moments when it was all him, and others where I could contain him. A little."

"I think I knew that, deep down. I could tell. But why didn't you say anything?"

"What on earth could I have possibly said? Even now I don't know how to apologise to you for all the fucked up things I made you do—"

Sam interrupted. "Stop saying that. I told you, you didn't _make _me do anything I wasn't basically on board with. I could have fought you, Dean. I never did."

Dean thought about that, and nodded. "Still. I'll never forgive myself. And I need you to know that I was fighting him. He never called you Sammy while we were... _together_ like that. I didn't let him. I couldn't have him calling you that, like that. It was a little thing, but it was important. But he didn't like me interfering. And he didn't like the feelings being with you brought up inside of me. Inside of him. So..." Dean hesitated, clearly not wanting say what was coming next, but he pushed on. "When he got angry at me, he picked up other guys."

Sam had figured this out, but it still hurt to hear it. He nodded. "He said something. I guessed he was sleeping with other guys." And then it dawned on Sam, just what Dean had been through. "Jesus, Dean! He basically forced you… that's…"

"Yeah, let's not go down that road, okay? I pulled myself away for most of it."

Sam couldn't believe how indifferent his brother was being about this. But it was clear that Dean really did not want to talk about it. Maybe one day.

"Dean." Sam didn't know what else to day.

"I thought I'd broken us, Sam. I knew that I'd destroyed the best thing in my life. And I'm so sorry, for all of it. For every hurtful, hateful thing that I said and did. If I could take it all back, I would do it. But I need you to know this." Dean looked like he was bracing himself. "Being with you? Was the most amazing thing I've ever felt in my life, demon or human. And I will understand if you want me to leave, if you never want to see me again, if you can never forgive me. But I need you to know. You are the best part of me, Sam."

Sam was overwhelmed. He didn't know how to process all the emotions storming inside of him.

"I should've tried harder to save you. I shouldn't have let it go on for so long. Dean, I should be the one apologising to _you_. You were going through hell, and I was indulging in a Sam pity party. Jesus. I'm so fucking sorry."

Dean chuckled. Sam looked at him and raised his eyebrows.

"It's just. Isn't this so typical? We both fucked up and we both want to take on all the blame."

Sam had to smile at that.

"I think maybe this time there's enough blame to go around. I think Cas tried to tell me that."

"Yeah." Sam had to agree.

"I don't think you need to be forgiven for anything, Sam. But if you need it, I forgive you. Absolutely and without condition."

The relief that flooded into Sam was overwhelming. "I… I think I do. I did. Thank you."

Sam cleared his throat, which was feeling a little tight. "I feel the same, you know. You were a demon, there's nothing you need forgiveness for. But you have mine."

Dean's eyes dropped closed and he breathed, "Thanks, Sammy."

The silence that followed was a little awkward but mostly comfortable. The emotion in the room was thick with confessions. Sam could still not fully believe everything that Dean had told him. It seemed too good to be true.

"So… since you were fourteen?" Dean was smirking, just a little.

Sam gave a small grin. "Yeah, well. You try and not fall for someone who is in your space _all_ the goddamn time and who is stupid-crazy hot."

Dean smile was growing. "I did," he said, leaning towards Sam. "I failed." He was looking at Sam with a glint in his eye. But Sam recognised that glint as all Dean. He knew now what it looked like when his brother wasn't there.

"Crazy hot, huh?" Dean had shuffled right up against Sam and said this against Sam's ear.

"Crazy, _crazy _hot," Sam's voice was shaky. He turned his face towards Dean's, looking directly at him.

Dean's gaze dropped to Sam's mouth and lifted quickly back to his eyes. "You need to tell me to stop, Sam. If you don't want this, or aren't sure… Anything you need to tell me. Because I haven't been able to get how good it was with you out of my mind, even when it was awful. And I so badly want to know what it's like with you when it's not awful."

Sam inhaled. And he closed the distance between their lips, kissing Dean with all the emotion he was feeling, trying to push it into his brother's mouth, hoping that Dean could feel it too.

Dean moaned. After a long moment, tasting each other, tangling tongues, Dean pulled away and focussed on Sam again. "Are you sure?"

Sam smiled at him. A big, open smile. "Sure," he nodded and leaned back into Dean.

They went slow. After all, they had never done this before. Not really. And each of them wanted to take their time, learn the other's body. Feel the other's skin.

As Sam undressed Dean, Dean's back to him, he saw the bite mark he'd left on Dean's shoulder. It was healed now, but there would always be a faint scar. He rubbed his fingers along it. Dean reached over his shoulder and brought Sam's fingers to his mouth, kissing them. He turned around and helped Sam get his own shirts off. Each of them stared at the other's torso, a little horrified. There were marks and bruises covering both of them. All the other's doing. They both started apologizing at the same time, and then stopped, each giving a huff of a laugh.

Sam reached over and ran his fingertips along the connect-the-dots that was his brother's skin.

Dean watched Sam looking at him. "Hey." Sam looked up. Dean nodded his head at the bruises on Sam's own body. "Even Stevens," Dean said shrugging.

And Sam gave a real laugh at that. "Okay," he nodded. "Yeah, okay."

But that didn't stop Sam from running his tongue over every mark he had put on Dean's flesh, and Dean shivered at the sensation. When he got to the cut Dean had just inflicted on himself to prove to Sam who he was, Sam couldn't resist running his tongue along the red line, sucking a little, tasting. He could taste the difference. Less darkness, more Dean. But his skin still buzzed faintly and he shivered. Dean watched Sam tasting him and gave a little chuckle. "Freak," he said with his eyes crinkling just for Sam. Sam just sucked a little harder, for once not feeling any shame.

Dean in turn, kissed every hurt he could find, and then would return to Sam's lips to try to kiss away the hurts he couldn't see.

Eventually they were both naked and tangled on Sam's bed. Sam could have stayed just like that forever and died a happy man.

"Sammy?" Dean had been straddling Sam, lavishing attention on his broad chest ("so fuckin' gorgeous, Sammy.") But he sat up now, and looked seriously Sam. Both of them were breathing heavily and both of them were achingly hard.

"I—" Dean seemed a little embarrassed. Sam reached up and ran his thumb along Dean's lips, _Jesus those lips_, and Dean turned his head and rested his cheek in Sam's large palm. "I want it to be you..."

Sam frowned.

"...in me." Dean finished.

Sam was about to argue, "Dean, if this is—"

"It's not about blame. Or penance," Dean paused. "Or at least not totally. No, shut up and let me finish. I started this, Sam. In a bad, bad way. I feel like you should be the one to start the good way." Dean shook his head, "I'm not explaining this right." Sam was stroking along Dean's side, thinking he understood where this was going.

"I just need it to be you. I can't be the… the dominant one. The one taking. Not yet."

Sam got it. At least he thought he did.

"Whatever you need, Dean. We'll make it good."

Dean leaned over Sam and kissed him feverishly.

"Fuck, Sammy, the things you let me do to you. I can't even think about it. Drives me out of my mind."

Sam flipped them, so that Dean was on his back with Sam hovering over him. "I'd let you do _anything_," he whispered into Dean's ear, earning him a deep groan. Sam kissed his way down Dean's body, until he got to his navel. God, he could smell Dean, the spicy scent of him, mixed with sex. He didn't think he would ever get used to the eroticism of that smell. Sam wanted to take Dean into his mouth but decided that would not happen tonight, so he kissed around Dean's waist, rolling him until Dean was lying on his stomach and Sam was licking his tail bone. It was then that Sam saw the jagged 'S' carved into Dean's ass cheek, as clear as anything and very permanent. Sam's eye's snapped shut.

"Sam?" Dean asked a little muzzily.

When Sam didn't answer Dean tried to turn over, but Sam was heavy so he settled for reaching back for Sam's thigh and giving it a squeeze. "Sammy? What's wrong?"

Sam opened his eyes again, and in answer rubbed his thumb along the brand.

"Oh," Dean sighed out in understanding.

"Hey. Sam. Sammy? Don't. Sam, I _like_ that mark. Hell, I fucking love that 'S'."

Sam snorted in disbelief.

"Really, Sam. I run my fingers along it every day. Have done since you put it there. I like belonging to you."

Sam wasn't sure he entirely believed Dean, but holy fuck he _really _liked hearing him say that. He leaned over and kissed the brand, and Dean gave a little shiver.

Sam found the lube in his bedside drawer and spent a long time pushing his fingers into Dean, stretching him out. He would not hurt Dean this time. He couldn't. He could drive Dean crazy with need, though. That he could do happily. Sam went on fingering Dean way past the point where Dean was ready was to take him.

"Jesus Christ, Sammy would you please fuck me already?!" Sam had to laugh. That was _all_ Dean.

Rolling them both onto their sides, and curling his arm tightly around Dean's waist, pulling him closer, Sam pushed into his brother slowly. The tight heat was amazing, but the thing that threatened to overwhelm Sam, to the point of coming or crying or both, was the fact that this was _Dean_. He had his brother back and was as close to him as any human could get to another. _Closer_. They were blood, and they were soulmates. And they were best friends. Sam had thought he'd never get to be brothers again nevermind any of the _more_. When Sam was as deep inside of Dean as he could get, he paused, shuddering slightly, pressing his forehead into the back of Dean's neck.

Dean tangled his fingers with his brother's.

"You make it perfect. It's you, Sammy. It's all you."

They worked together to push each other over the edge, Sam pushing into Dean, Dean thrusting into his and Sam's hands, fingers still linked. They were never not touching as much of each other as they could and they came like that, gently and beautifully, Sam chasing Dean.

Dean didn't call Sam "baby" once.

When they had recovered, and Sam had cleaned them both up, Sam lay back down on the bed and turned onto his stomach, face turned towards Dean. Dean was lying on his back with his eyes closed, a small smile on his face. One arm was thrown above his head, the other was stretched out so that he was touching Sam. He must have felt Sam staring because he opened his eyes.

"What is it, Bitch?" Dean asked smiling softly at Sam.

Sam smiled back, and then placed the demon blade on Dean's chest. He continued to look at Dean, smiling.

Dean looked down at the knife and then lifted his eyebrows at Sam.

"Even Stevens, Jerk," Sam said.

Dean's eyes widened as he realised what Sam was implying. What Sam was asking him to do.

"No." Dean sat up quickly, shaking his head vehemently. "No way."

"You have to." Sam was calm and content. This was absolutely going to happen.

"The fuck I do. Are you nuts? I'm not cutting you, Sam. I almost fucking killed you, there is no way—" Sam shut him up with a kiss.

"Now you know how I feel about what I did. But you said you liked it, Dean. Liked the _brand._ I want that feeling. I want to belong to you." He did not say that as far as he was concerned he had always belonged to Dean. This was important.

Sam pushed the knife into Dean's hand. "Even Stevens. No blame. Just belonging. Please, Dean."

Dean had never been able to say no to Sam.

Sam lay back down on his stomach and Dean climbed over him, scooching down so that he was sitting on Sam's calves. As the knife cut into him, Sam didn't flinch. He didn't make a sound. He relished the feeling of Dean marking him here and now. Like this. "Make sure its permanent," was all he said. Dean nodded, but didn't say a word. Sam felt the one long stroke, and then the three shorter ones. He felt Dean sit up, felt him staring at the letter he'd carved into Sam's soft flesh. Then Dean leaned over again, and licked up the blood that Sam could feel collecting on his skin. And then Dean kissed him.

Sam chuckled.

"What?" Dean asked, giving a final lick.

"Dude," Sam snorted. "You just literally kissed my ass."

"Yep," Dean said happily. "And I plan to do it again." And he did. "And again." This time he kissed up Sam's back. "And again," he ended at Sam's mouth. Sam could taste his blood and Dean's mouth. And he liked it.

Dean smirked at him. "You are one twisted man, little brother."

Sam shrugged. Dean was hovering over him, his arms holding his weight off of Sam, and Sam could just glimpse the Mark of Cain on Dean's forearm. He turned around so that he could run his fingers along this mark that he'd been avoiding.

He looked up at Dean, saw that Dean was watching him carefully.

"We'll figure it out, Sammy. Just like we always do," and Dean bent down and kissed the worry away.

At least for the night. Sam could live with that. He had Dean. They were perfect in their own fucked up way and they would face this next thing. Together. Like they always had and always would.

**Chapter song: Closer by Nine Inch Nails.**


End file.
